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3 


50 Cen 


Xovell’3 International Series 


Basil and Annette 


BY 

B. L. FARJEON 

Author of “The Mystery of M. Felix,” “Toilers of Babylon,” Etc. 


Authorised Edition 


NEW YORK 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 

SUCCESSORS TO 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

150 Worth Street, corner Mission Place 

Every work in this series is published by arrangement with the author 


Issued Weekly. Annual Subscription, $15.00. October 21, 1890. 
Entered at New York Post Office as second-class matter. 


BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT WITH THE AUTHORS. 


International 

OF 

MODERN NOVELS. 


THE NEW WORKS PUBLISHED IN THIS EXCELLENT 
SERIES, SEMI-WEEKLY, ARE ALWAYS THE FIRST 
ISSUED IN THIS COUNTRY. 

EVERY ISSUE IS PRINTED FROM NEW, CLEAR 
ELECTROTYPE PLATES, PRINTED ON FINE PAPER 
AND BOUND IN ATTRACTIVE PAPER COVERS OF 
ORIGINAL DESIGN. 


No. CTS. 

13. On Circumstantial Evidence. By Florence Marryatt 30 

14. Miss Kate ; or Confessions of a Caretaker. By Rita 30 

15. A Vagabond Lover. By Rita 20 

16. The Search for Basil Ltndhurst. By Rosa Nouchette Carey 30 

17. The Wing of Azrael. By Mona Caird 30 

18. The Fog Princes. ByF. Warden 30 

19. John Herring. By S. Baring-Gould 50 

20. The Fatal Phryne By F. C Philips and C. J. Wills 30 

21. Harvest. By John Strange Winter 30 

22. Mehalah. By S. Baring-Gould 50 

23. A Troublesome Girl. By “ The Duchess.” 30 

24. Derrick Vaughan, Novelist. By Edna Lyall 30 

25. Sophy Carmine. By John Strange Winter 30 

26. The Luck of the House. By Adeline Sergeant 30 

27. The Pennycomequicks. By S. Baring-Gould 50 

28. Jezebel’s Friends. By Dora Russell 30 

29. Comedy of a Country House. By Julian Sturgis 30 

30. The Piccadilly Puzzle. By Fergus Hume 30 

31. That Other Woman. By Annie Thomas 30 

32. The Curse of Carne’s Hold. By G. A. Henty 30 

33. Uncle Piper of Piper’s Hill. By Tasma 30 

34. A Life Sentence. By Adeline Sergeant 30 

35. Kit Wyndham. By Frank Barrett 30 

36. The Tree of Knowledge. By G. M. Robins 30 

37. Roland Oliver. By Justin McCarthy 30 

38. Siieba. By Rita 30 

39. Sylvia Arden. By Oswald Crawfurd 30 

40. Young Mr. Ainslie’s Courtship. By F. C. Philips 30 

41. The Haute Noblesse. By George Manville Fenn 30 

42. Mount Eden. By Florence Marryatt 30 

43. Buttons. By John Strange Winter 30 

44. Nurse Revel’s Mistake. By Florence Warden 30 

45. Arminell. By S. Baring-Gould 50 

46. The Lament of Dives. By Walter Besant 30 

47. Mrs. Bob. By John Strange Winter 30 

48. Was Ever Woman in this Humor Wooed. By Chas. Gibbon 30 

49. The Mynns Mysteky. By George Manville Fenn 30 

50. Hedri. By Helen Mathers 30 

51. The Bondman. By Hall Caine 30 

52. A Girl of the People. By L. T. Meade 30 

53. Twenty Novelettes. By Twenty Prominent Novelists 30 

54. A Family Without A Name. By Jules Verne 30 

55. A Sydney Sovereign. By Tasma 30 

56. A March in the Ranks. By Jessie Fothcrgill 30 

57. Our Erring Brother. By F. W. Robinson 30 

58. Misadventure. By W. E. Norris 30 

59. Plain Tales from tiie Hills. By Rudyard Kipling 50 

60. Dinna Forget. By John Strange Winter 30 

61. Cosette. By Katherine S. Macquoid 30 

62. Master of His Fate. By J. Maclaren Cobban 30 





CONTINUED ON THIRD PAGE OF COVER. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE 






Novell’s International Scutes, 1 Wo. 133. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE 



B. L. FARJEON 

AUTHOR OF 

“ THE MYSTERY OF M. FELIX,” “ TOILERS OF BABYLON,” ETC. 


'Authorised Edition 





NEW YORK 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 

SUCCESSORS TO 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

I JO WORTH ST., COR MISSION PLACE 


TZ'i 

' X3 


Copyright, 1890, 

BY 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE, 


CHAPTER I. 

In the old world the reign of winter has commenced. 
The woods are snow-white, the hedges are frosted over, 
the pools are frozen, icicles hang from the branches of the 
trees. Wayfarers walk briskly, stamp their feet, and beat 
their hands to keep the circulation going ; while other 
humans, whom business does not call from their houses, 
snuggle round the fireside, with doors and windows closed 
to keep out the nipping air. Winged immigrants that 
came in the sweet spring days have long since taken their 
departure to warmer climes, bearing with them memories 
of a bright youth, to be renewed when another spring 
smiles upon the land. 

In the new world, at the same moment, it is nature’s 
holiday time. The air is scented with the fragrance of 
white lilies and jessamine ; fringed violets carpet the 
woods : the wild passion fruit, with its gleaming scarlet 
flowers, illuminates the bushes ; the palm-tree rears its 
graceful head above festoons of feathery leaves, in which 
clumps of red berries shine like clusters of stars ; tall 
quandong-trees and wild plums shoot up straight as 
arrows, for the most part clear of vines and creepers, but 
not always successful in escaping the embrace of the 
stag’s horn fern, one of the handsomest of all Australia’s 


6 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


parasites ; and the white- wooded umbrella-tree proudly 
asserts its claim to pre-eminence, with its darkly lustrous 
laurel-shaped leaves surmounted by long radiating spikes 
of crimson flowers, the brilliancy of which rivals the glow- 
ing sunsets of the South. Through the grand forests, in 
which for unnumbered ages the dusky savage has roamed 
in freedom, never dreaming of the invasion of a higher 
civilization, flit flocks of resplendent parrots, chief among 
them being the blue mountain, the rosella, and the crimson 
wing ; black cockatoos, with their dazzling tails spread 
out, are lurking in the branches of the bloodwood trees, 
where they find both food and shelter ; flycatchers, all 
green and gold, are cunningly watching the waterholes 
for prey ; laughing jackasses, with their blue feathers 
and cold gray eyes, which are now twinkling with fun, 
are making merry over the absurd antics of native com- 
panions, whose conceited hoppings and twirlings are 
comic enough to inspire mirth in the dullest denizens of 
the woods ; while the soft musical notes of the bell birds, 
all green and purple, blue and golden, make harmonious 
the west wind which travels from the beaches, and fill 
the air with melody strange and sweet. 

Within hail of these summer evidences of loveliness 
and grandeur stand two men, one young, the other not 
yet middle-aged. The younger man, whose name is Basil 
Whittingham, is the embodiment of careless, indolent 
grace, but just now he is evincing an unusual earnestness 
of manner, both in speaking and listening. His age is 
barely twenty-three, and he bears about him the unmis- 
takable stamp of gentleman. This is not always the 
case with men who have honest claims to the title, but 
with some few it is a gift. It is so with Basil Whitting- 
ham. He has blue eyes, fair hair, a supple, graceful 
form, a laughing mouth, with teeth like pearl, delicate 
hands, and a long light-brown moustache, which he 
evidently regards as a magnificent possession, and cher- 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


1 


ishes and nurses as a thing of beauty. Otherwise he has 
not much to be proud of in the shape of possession, for 
his clothes would be anything but presentable in Mayfair, 
though here in the Australian woods they may serve well 
enough. His trousers, tucked into old knee boots, have 
conspicuously seen their best days ; his shirt, of some 
light material, has rents in it, showing the fair skin of his 
arms embrowned by the sun where the sun could get at 
them : the sash round his waist is frayed and faded ; his 
wide-awake hat, sound in front, is tattered at the back, 
where it flaps loosely over his flowing hair ; and, more- 
over, he is smoking a short black cutty. Yet despite 
these drawbacks, if drawbacks they can be called in this 
land of freedom, freer indeed than any republic under the 
sun, even the most ordinary observer would be ready to 
acknowledge that the man was a gentleman. One for 
instance, who would not do a dirty trick, who would 
not tell a lie to serve his own interests, who would not 
betray a friend, and who would be more likely to wrong 
himself than others. Tender, simple, brave ; fearless, but 
not foolhardy ; open-hearted, confiding, and unsuspicious 
of sinister motives in those with whom he has once shaken 
hands ; with a sense of humor which lightens adversity : 
regretting not the past, though he has wilfully steered his 
boat into the bay of Poverty, and dreading not the future ; 
such is Basil Whittingham, a typical type of an honest, 
frank, manly English gentleman. 

His companion, by name Anthony Bidaud, was born 
and bred in Switzerland, but is of French extraction. He 
speaks English fluently, so well indeed that those who 
serve him will not believe he is a foreigner. He has not 
yet reached middle age, but he looks sixty at least, and 
on his worn, anxious face dwells the expression of a man 
who is waiting for a mortal stroke. He is well dressed, 
after the free bush fashion, and is no less a gentleman 
than Basil Whittingham. It is the mutual recognition of 


8 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


social equality that keeps Basil penniless and poorly clad, 
for he is a guest, not a dependent, on the plantation of 
which Anthony Bidaud is master. This state of things 
suits the careless nature of th.e younger gentleman, who, 
welcomed and received by Anthony Bidaud as an equal, 
takes a pride in holding himself free from the touch of 
servitude. Perhaps Annette, of whom you shall presently 
hear, serves as a factor in the attitude he has chosen. 

Being the hero of our story, it is needful that something 
should be related of his career in the home country. 

His parents were Devonshire people, and he their only 
child. It was supposed that his father was a man of for- 
tune : he lived as one, kept hounds and horses, and main- 
tained a costly establishment. Needless to say that Basil 
was the idol of his parents ; he was also the idol of a 
wealthy uncle, to whom he paid a visit once in every 
year, and who, being childless, had announced his inten- 
tion of making Basil his heir. Thus, all seemed smooth 
and pleasant sailing before the young fellow. But misfor- 
tunes came ; at the age of fourteen he lost his mother. The 
memory of the solemn moments he spent by her bedside 
before she closed her eyes upon the world abided ever 
with Basil, whose passionate adoration for the dear mother 
was a good testimony of his affectionate disposition. But 
there was something deeper than affection in the feelings 
he entertained for her. She had been to him more than 
a loving mother ; she had been his truest counsellor and 
friend. Upon her had devolved the father’s duty of incul- 
cating in their child those strict principles of honor and 
right-doing which set the seal of true manhood upon him 
who follows them out in his course through life. Basil’s 
father was of an easy, genial nature, and it was from him 
that Basil inherited a cheerfulness of temper and a sense 
of humor which lessened evils instead of magnifying them. 
The higher qualities of his character came from his mother. 
Lying on her death-bed she impressed upon him the 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


9 

beauty of honesty and uprightness, and the lad’s heart 
responded to her teaching. 

“Never look to consequences, my dear child, ’’she said. 
“Do always what is right ; and when you are a man 
counsel and guide your dear father. ” 

He promised to obey her, but it was not until many 
years had passed that he knew what she meant when she 
told him to counsel and guide his father. It was she who 
had steered her husband’s boat when it had got into 
troubled waters, and steered it always into a safe harbor. 
No one knew it, no one suspected it ; not even her hus- 
band, who believed that it was due to himself alone that 
he escaped dangers which threatened him from time to 
time ; but this ignorance was due to her wisdom, and 
partly, also, to her love ; rather than wound his feelings, 
she preferred to suffer herself. It is not to be inferred 
from this remark that she had not led a happy life ; she 
had, and her home was happy in the truest sense ; but 
she sighed to think of her husband, left alone to grapple 
with difficulties which his easy nature prevented him from 
seeing. 

She had a private fortune of her own, and with her hus- 
band’s consent she made a will devising it all to her son, 
with the exception of some small legacies to humble 
friends. The money was to be invested, and to accumu- 
late till Basil was twenty-one years of age, when he was 
to come into possession of it ; so that, even without his 
uncle, he was comfortably provided for. A short time 
after his mother’s death his father announced his intention 
of giving up his establishment in the country and settling 
in London. The home in which he had passed so many 
happy years with his wife was desolate and sad now 
that she was gone from it ; he wandered through the 
rooms with a weight on his heart which memory made 
heavier instead of lighter. 

“Yes, Basil,” he said to his son, “ it is the best thing 


IO 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


I can do. If I remain here I shall lose my reason ; I 
must find some distraction from grief.” 

Basil was too young to question this decision ; what 
his father resolved upon must be right. The old home 
was sold up, and father and son removed to London. * 
Then came the question of Basil’s education. His uncle 
considered removal to London a step in the wrong direc- 
tion, and he wrote to that effect ; he also expressed his 
opinion that London was an unsuitable place in which to 
conduct a young gentleman’s education. “Give the kid 
a tutor,” he said, “and let him travel.” This was done," 
and before he was fifteen years of age Basil was living 
on the Continent, picking up knowledge and picking up 
pleasure in not quite equal quantities, the latter predomi- 
nating. It was an agreeable life, and Basil did not harm 
by it. Every year he came to England, and spent a 
month with his father in London, and a week with his 
uncle in the country. On one occasion he and his uncle 
spent this week together in the great city, living at Mor- 
ley’s Hotel, Charing Cross, and seeing the sights, and 
this visit was destined to be pregnant with strange results 
in years to come. Except upon all other occasions the 
uncle received Basil in the country. The old gentleman 
was full of quips and cranks and imaginary ills. He 
fancied himself an invalid, and coddled himself up ab- 
surdly ; and Basil, when he visited him, seldom left the 
house. The forced seclusion did not trouble the young 
fellow ; he could make himself happy anywhere. Cer- 
tainly there were few dull moments in his uncle’s house 
when Basil was in it, and the old gentleman, while not 
objecting to a display of animal spirits, improved the op- 
portunity by endeavoring to drive into his nephew’s head 
a special kind of worldly wisdom. As, for instance : All 
men are rogues ( ourselves excepted). Never open your 
heart to a friend ( except to an uncle who is going to leave 
you all his money). Keep your secrets. Spend }'our 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. tl 

money on your own pleasures and your own ambitions. 
Never make yourself responsible for another man’s debts. 
Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. This kind of counsel was 
showered upon Basil, and it produced no effect upon him 
••whatever, he was spared the trouble of arguing upon 
these matters, even if he were in the humor for it — which 
he was not ; he had a knack of avoiding disagreeable 
topics by his uncle’s everlasting assertion that the counsel 
he gave was absolutely indisputable, and was to be 
received as such. 

“All right, uncle,” said Basil; “now let us talk of 
something else.” 

And he would fly off into accounts of such of his Con- 
tinental adventures as he knew would please the old fel- 
low. He had a capital gift of description, and the old 
man would sit huddled up in his arm-chair, cracking his 
sides at his nephew’s wit. Basil never bade his uncle 
good-bye without a check for a substantial sum in his 
pocket. He was liberally provided for by his father, but 
he did not despise his uncle’s gifts. Seeing that his 
stories of his travels amused his uncle, he said that he 
would one day write a book. 

“And when you write it,” his uncle said, “burn it. 
Write a book indeed ! Put your time out at better interest, 
Basil. Make money, money, money. Then people will 
bow down to you. I'm not a nice object to look at, am 
I ? But I’ve got money, and people bow down to me / 
How much more will they be likely to do so to a hand- 
some fellow like you? Make money, my boy, make 
money, and stick to it.” 

Which worldly advice went as usual in at one ear and 
out at the other. After all, the old gentleman’s remarks 
had only a general application ; had there been any spe- 
cial interest at stake Basil would have argued it stoutly 
enough, and thereby got himself into hot water. 

So things went on till Basil was twenty-one years of 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


12 

age, when he was to come into possession of his mother’s 
fortune. On his birthday he wrote to his father, saying 
he would be home in a fortnight, and full of kind mes- 
sages — messages which did not reach the sense of the man 
for whom they were intended : on the day the letter was 
delivered at the London address his father was lying in 
delirium on a bed from which he was never to rise. A 
week before he intended to start for home Basil received a 
letter informing him of the sad news. “Come back im- 
mediately,” the writer said, “ if you wish to see your father 
alive. Basil did not lose a moment. Travelling as 
quickly as possible he arrived at his father’s house — too 
late. It was a terrible blow to him, more terrible than 
the loss of his mother, for which he had been in a mea- 
sure prepared. Death came more slowly in her case, and 
she had instilled into her son a spirit of resignation which 
softened the bereavement. Even before she drew her 
last breath Basil had thought of her as an angel in heaven. 
But with his father it was so sudden ; there had been no 
preparation for the parting, no indication of it. It was 
true that his father had been ailing for months, but he had 
been careful not to alarm his son. He may have believed, 
as most men do, that the worst would not happen ; we 
are chary in applying to ourselves the rules we are so 
ready to apply to others. Only in his last hour of con- 
sciousness, before he fell into the delirium from which it 
was fated he should not recover, had he asked for his desk, 
and taking from it a sheet of paper wrote a few words to 
his son, which he desired should be delivered in the 
event of anything serious happening to him. He did not 
believe it even then ; had he been a religious man he 
would have weighed the matter more deeply, but he was 
one who, living as fairly good and moral a life as the aver- 
age church-goer, seldom went to the Divine fount for com- 
fort and counsel. It might have been better for Basil if 
he had, for a warning might have come to him to check 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


13 

the mad desire which had taken possession of him. 

Between him and Basil there had never been a harsh 
word. Each bore for the other the truest affection. Never 
a cross, never an ill-tempered look ; unvarying sweet- 
ness had marked their intercourse. So sudden a separa- 
tion could have been nothing less than terrible to the liv- 
ing. It was long before Basil recovered from it. With 
the exception of his crotchety old uncle he was absolutely 
without kith or kin. Letters had passed between them 
with reference to the sad event. “ I cannot come to Lon- 
don to attend the funeral,” his uncle wrote ; “ I am too 
infirm and feeble. When you have settled your fathers 
affairs I shall be glad to see you to talk things over. It 
is time you made a serious start in life. You have 
your mother’s fortune, and your father’s, which I 
should say is a handsome one ; you will have mine, 
though I intend to keep you out of it as long as I can. 
You are a lucky dog ; yc?u ought to die a millionaire.” 
A mortal ending the absolute desirability of which may 
well be doubted. Basil replied, hoping his uncle would 
live to a good old age, and promising to visit him as soon 
as affairs were settled. In his father’s desk he found the 
scrawl which the dying man had written. It was very 
short. 

“My dear Basil, — The honor of my name is in your 
hands. Your loving father.” 

He had not strength to attach his name. 

It was not until the day after the funeral that the signi- 
ficance of these words impressed itself upon Basil. “The 
honor of my name is in your hands.” They were his 
father’s last words to him. What meaning did they bear ? 
He had heard from his father’s lawyers, informing him 
that they had the will in their possession, and that they 
were at his service. He wrote to them, to the effect that 
he would call upon them early the following morning. 

The head of the firm received him gravely and court- 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


14 

eously, and gave orders that they were not to be 
disturbed. 

The will had been drawn out years since, and no alter- 
ation had been made in it. Everything was left to Basil, 
unreservedly to him. There were affectionate allusions 
in it which drew tears from Basil’s eyes. When his emo- 
tion had subsided he observed that the lawyer was regard- 
ing him with an air of curiosity. 

“ May I ask,” said the lawyer, “ if full confidence ex- 
isted between you and your father ? ” 

“ The fullest,” replied Basil. “ He had no secrets from 
me, nor I any from him.” 

The lawyer seemed sensibly relieved. “ You know of 
his speculations ? ” 

“His speculations!” exclaimed Basil, in surprise. 
“ I was not aware that he speculated.” 

“Then full confidence did not exist between you. I 
warned him ; I could do no m$re than that. In my ex- 
perience, my dear sir, I have seen so many go the same 
way. There is but one end to it, and this has ended as 
the others have done.” 

“I will listen to nothing against my father,” said Basil 
warmly. 

“I have nothing to say against him,” responded the 
lawyer, “except that he was unwise. He had an intense 
craving to leave you a very large fortune, and this craving 
became a kind of disease in him, and led him on. I regret 
to tell you that all his speculations have ended disas- 
trously. ” 

“ That is to say, have resulted in a loss ? ” 

“ In great losses.” 

“To what extent ? ” 

“ Claims are pouring in. If they are satisfied, the will 
in your hands is not worth more than waste paper. But 
some of the claims may be contested, and in my belief 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


15 

successfully. But that will be a matter for counsel’s 
opinion.” 

“It has nothing to do with counsel,” said Basil; “It 
has to do with me. I am my dear father’s representative, 
and it is for me to determine what is to be done.” 

“Undoubtedly. Instructions must come from you.” 

“ Claims are pouring in, you say. Can you tell me to 
what amount ? ” 

“As far as we have received them ; there are more to 
be presented, you understand ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Plainly, then,” said the lawyer, “the property your 
father has left will not be sufficient to meet his debts.” 

“They must be paid, however.” 

The lawyer inclined his head. 

“Yes,” said Basil, rising and pacing the room in his 
excitement, “they must be paid. No stigma must rest 
upon my father’s memory. Some of the claims may be 
contested, you say ? Injustice?” 

“ Legally,” replied the lawyer. 

“I ask you again,” said Basil, “in justice? ” 

The lawyer, declining to commit himself, made no 
reply. 

‘ ‘ At least, ” said Basil, ‘ ‘ you can answer me this question. 
My father owes the money ? ” 

“Yes, my dear sir, he owes the money.” 

“ Then it must be paid. Do you not see that it must be 
paid ? No man shall have the power of uttering one word 
against him.” 

“But,” said the lawyer, eyeing the young man as he 
would have eyed a psychological puzzle, “ if the estate 
left by your father is not sufficient to satisfy all these 
claims, what is to be done ? ” 

“I have money of my own — my mothers fortune — of 
which you have the particulars.” 

“ Yes, we can give you all the information you require, 


i6 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


and it requires but your signature to a few documents, 
already prepared, my dear sir, to place you in possession 
of this very handsome inheritance. ,, 

“You can probably tell me the amount of it.” 

“Almost to a farthing. It is invested in the safest 
securities, realizable at an hour’s notice, and it amounts 
to ” — the lawyer took some papers from a japanned box, 
and ran his eye over them — “ it amounts to not less than 
twenty-three thousand pounds.” 

“ Will that,” asked Basil, “ with my father’s estate, sat- 
isfy in full the claims which are pouring in ? ” 

“ But, my dear sir, expostulated the lawyer, with a look 
of astonishment — 

Basil would not allow him to conclude. “ I have to 
repeat some of my questions, it seems,” he said. “Will 
this fortune, which is realizable in an hour, satisfy in full 
the claims of my father’s creditors?” 

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders, and replied briefly, 
“More than satisfy them.” 

“ Then the matter is settled,” said Basil. “ I empower 
you to collect the whole of these claims to the uttermost 
farthing ; to convert the securities which are mine into 
money ; to prepare a complete balance sheet, and to pay 
my father’s creditors in full, with as little delay as possible. ” 

“ I am to accept these instructions as definite and 
decisive ? ” 

“As definite and decisive.” 

“They shall be followed and carried out with as little 
delay as possible. I must trouble you to call here at three 
o’clock this afternoon to sign the necessary papers.” 

“ I will be punctual. Good-morning ; and I am greatly 
obliged to you.” 

“ Good-morning, my dear sir,” said the lawyer, adding 
under his breath, “and I am greatly astonished at you.” 

At three o’clock that afternoon Basil called again at the 
lawyer’s office, and signed the necessary papers, and 


BASIL AA r D ANNETTE. 


1 7 


went away with a light heart and a smiling face. Within 
a month the affair was concluded, his father’s estate was 
realized, and his father’s creditors were paid in full. 
There remained to him then, out of his mother’s fortune, 
the sum of three thousand pounds. 

He was perfectly happy and contented. Long before 
the business was finally settled he had realized what his 
father meant by his last few written words: “My dear 
Basil, — The honor of my name is in your hands. Your 
loving father.” To good hands, indeed, had the honor of 
a dead man’s name been entrusted. Basil had preserved 
it unsullied, unblemished. 

He took no credit for it ; he had fulfilled a sacred trust. 
It was simply a duty performed. 

“Now,” he said to himself, “I will go and see my 
uncle.” 

But while he was preparing to start he received a letter 
from that gentleman which will explain why the visit 
was never paid. 


“Nephew Basil” (the letter ran), “I have received 
news of your mad proceedings since your return home. 
No person in his sober senses would have acted as you 
have done. The greater portion of the claims made 
against your father’s estate could have been legally and 
successfully contested, and even in what remained a sharp 
lawyer could have obtained a substantial abatement. 
This view, as I understand, was presented to you by an 
able firm of solicitors, but you rejected it, and chose to 
play the fool. Now, I do not care to have dealings with 
a fool. 

“I might have pardoned you for sacrificing your father’s 
estate to satisfy these claims, but I will not pardon you 
for sacrificing the fortune your mother left you. It proves 
to me that it is not safe to entrust money to you, and I 
have decided to put mine to better use than to leave it to 
you. Accept this intimation as my ultimatum. It is 
the last letter you will ever receive from me, and you will 
never see me again. Therefore you need not go to the 

2 


8 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


trouble of coming my way. My house is not open to 
you. All the good counsel I have given you has been 
thrown away. You might have told me at the time, and 
I should have saved my breath and my patience. Good- 
bye, foolish nephew. 

“ Bartholomew Whittingham.” 

He was angry enough to add a postscript : 

“As you are so fond of paying debts for which you are 
not responsible, what do you say to considering the money 
I have given you from time to time as one, and handing it 
back ? You can do as you please about it. I can make no 
legal demand for it, but I gave it to you under the im- 
pression that you were not exactly an idiot. It amounts 
to quite fourteen hundred pounds. If I had it I would put 
it out at good interest.” 

To state that Basil was not hurt by this letter would be 
to state what is not true. He had an affection for the old 
fellow, and he was greatly pained to think that all was 
over between them ; but he was not in the least disturbed 
by the old man’s arguments. He had done what was 
right ; of this he was sure. But the letter stung Basil as 
well as hurt him. There was a bitter twang in his uncle’s 
remark that he could make no legal demand for the money 
he had given his nephew. “ He shall have it back,” said 
Basil, “ every farthing of it.” Then he was seized with 
an expensive fit of humor. His uncle had spoken of 
interest. He would prove that he was not a whit less 
independent than the old fellow himself. He made some 
lame and ridiculous calculations ofinterest at five per cent, 
per annum, and arrived at the sum of two thousand pounds 
and a few pence. He got a draft for the amount, and 
enclosed it in the following note : — 

“All right, my dear uncle. Here is your money back 
again, with interest added. If it is not enough interest, 
let me know, and I will send you more. Good-bye, and 
good luck to you. 

“ Your affectionate nephew, 

“ Basil./’ 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


19 

This last debt paid, Basil had barely a thousand pounds 
left. He did not hear from his uncle again. 

Now, what was he to do ? He was without profession 
or trade, and did not feel equal for any kind of service he 
saw around, even if it was offered to him. “I think,” he 
said, “I will travel a little more.” He did so, and was 
prudent enough to travel in a economic spirit ; but his 
money went fast enough for all that. At the end of a year 
and a half he had in his purse exactly one hundred pounds. 
Was he dashed ? Not a bit. But he knew that something 
must be done. “I will go to Australia,” he said. The 
project exalted him. He glowed, he rubbed his hands, 
he was in a whirl of pleasant excitement. He would be 
in a new land, in a land of adventure, in a land of 
romance. There he would be all right, of course. Not a 
doubt of it. As for his empty purse — and it was pretty 
well empty by the time he had paid for his passage and 
a few necessary odds and ends — he scarcely gave it a 
thought. Was he not going to Australia, the poor man’s 
El Dorado ? So he set forth in a sailing vessel, and en- 
joyed the passage immensely, and landed in Sydney as 
happy as a king. The fairy harbor, the most beautiful 
in all the wide world, enchanted him ; the ravishing 
scenery enchanted him ; the quaint old city, so home-like 
in its appearance, enchanted him. Certainly he had 
come to the right place. 

He was rather more melancholy a few weeks afterwards, 
but he never lost heart. Suitable employment did not 
present itself so readily as he had thought it would, and 
gold was not to be picked up in the streets. “I am 
making a mistake,” he said. “ I must not remain in the 
city, I must go into the bush.” He soon made a start, 
and began tramping Queensland way, and after some 
weeks of wandering reached the tract of country which 
Anthony Bidaud had taken up. 


20 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


CHAPTER II. 

On the plantation which he had brought almost to per* 
fection by twenty years of wise labor, Anthony Bidaud 
lived with his only child, Annette, fourteen years of age. 
He had no other of his kindred near him. The wife he 
brought from Switzerland lay in a flower-covered grave 
within a mile of the spot upon which he stood. They 
came to the colony childless, but after a lapse of years 
Annette was born to them. Until the child was nine years 
of age the fond mother was spared to rear her, and then 
one morning Annette awoke to find the dear protector lost 
to her. It was an irreparable loss in that far-away land, 
and there was no one of her own sex to take the mother’s 
place. But Annette had her father left, and he, not unsuc- 
cessfully, strove to fill the void in his child's life. He 
was unremitting in his tenderness and watchfulness, and 
he bestowed upon his little one a full-hearted love. The 
two had lived together till now, when Anthony Bidaud’s 
heart was gloomed by the fear of approaching death. He 
had never been strong, and the climate of the new world 
in which he had made his home was destined to be fatal 
to him. He made pilgrimages to Sydney and Melbourne 
to consult the best physicians, but they gave him little 
hope. Death was approaching surely and swiftly. A 
gnawing pain, an inexpressible grief, stirred his heart as 
he thought of his child, whom he idolized. The reflection 
that she would be left alone in this wild spot, in this 
remote part of the world, without a relative, with scarcely 
a friend, appalled him. Yet what could he do ? 

He had neither sought nor made friends ; he and his 
wife and child had been sufficient for each other, and 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


21 


when his wife died he and Annette sighed for no other 
companionship. But had he sought friendships he would 
not have succeeded in making them in any but fitful 
fashion. His nearest neighbor was twenty miles away, 
and everybody in the colony was so intent upon “getting 
on ” and making his fortune, that there was no time for 
social intercourse. In colonial cities there was at that 
time but little “society ; ” in the bush, none. 

About a hundred feet above the blue clear stream of the 
Pioneer stood the house in which Anthony Bidaud lived. 
The slabs with which it was built had been split from the 
gum and bloodwood trees growing in the forest which 
lay in the rear of the huts and buildings inhabited by the 
laborers, chiefly South Sea Islanders, who worked on the 
plantation. The roof was composed of shingles split from 
the same description of trees. The interior of the house 
was lined with rich, dark red cedar, which grew in the 
thick scrub on the opposite banks of the river. An avenue 
of bananas led from the house along the cliff to an arbor, 
in which oranges, custard apples, guavas, and other 
delicious fruits ripened in unsurpassed perfection. The 
posts of the verandahs which surrounded three sides of 
the house were covered by gigantic passion fruit, except 
at one end, which was completely enclosed by grape 
vines and the yellow jessamine. Hammocks were slung 
in the verandahs, and the occupants could swing idly to 
and fro, shaded from the hot sun, and within reach of 
the fruit which grew in such wonderful abundance and 
luxuriance all around. A lovely home for husband, wife, 
and children ; a dream which a poet soul only could prop- 
erly appreciate, but for one simple human being, in whose 
days the flower of human affection was not blossoming — 
little better than a wilderness. 

It was of this sad prospect, which his state of health 
warned him lay before Annette, that Anthony Bidaud was 
speaking to Basil at the time of their introduction to the 


22 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


reader. They had been acquainted but a short time, but 
each bore for the other a genuine esteem. Some kindred 
qualities of independence, high-mindedness, and honesty 
of purpose had drawn them together from the hour they 
first met, and would have drawn them even closer in the 
future ; but the shadows gathering over one life marred 
this fulfilment of a brighter promise. Barely two months 
had elapsed since Basil Whittingham, presenting him- 
self to Anthony Bidaud, had asked for the shelter of 
his roof for a night. Annette was present when Basil 
appeared ; by her side a faithful Scotch terrier, who 
guarded his young mistress with watchful care, and, when 
needed, with ferocity. Basil stooped and patted the head 
of the dog, who did not snarl and show his teeth, as was 
his wont with strangers, but submitted to the familiarity 
with unusual amiability. The sensible creature went even 
farther than this ; he rose, and rubbed his head against 
Basil’s leg, courting, by that action, a continuance of the 
caressing. 

“ Father,” said Annette, “no stranger has ever done 
that with Bruno before.” 

“Bruno and I are old friends,” said Basil, with a 
pleasant smile. Annette thought that she had never seen 
such beautiful teeth. 

“Oh, Bruno,” she cried, reproachfully, “and you never 
told me ! Come here directly, sir ! ” Bruno approached 
her, wagging his tail. “ Really old friends ? '* she asked, 
turning to Basil. 

“No, not really,” he replied. “What I mean is, I love 
dogs, and dogs love me.” 

“ A good testimonial,” remarked Anthony Bidaud, gaz- 
ing with interest upon this poorly-attired gentleman. 

“I have found it so,” responded Basil, “for dog and 
man.” 

He held out his hand to Annette, who not only took it, 
but retained it. This went far to complete the conquest 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


2 3 


of Anthony Bidaud. With the ordinary tramp he was 
very familiar, but here was a man of another breed No 
hang-dog looks, no slouching, no lowering of the brows, 
no prison-mark about him. An upright gentleman, who 
looked the man he was asking a favor from squarely in 
the face. 

“Have you travelled far? ” asked Anthony Bidaud. 

“About twenty miles, I should say. Rather too hot a 
day for so long a walk.” 

“You must be tired,” said Anthony Bidaud. “ You are 
heartily welcome here.” 

“I thank you,” said Basil. 

That this young man had so swiftly won favor with 
his child and her four-footed protector was a sufficient 
recommendation to Bidaud, but, independent of that, he 
was rejoiced to meet with a gentleman from whose 
manners the polish of good society had not been rubbed 
off by familiarity with the rougher aspects of life in the 
new world. Basil was a man whom no experiences could 
harden ; the inner grain of his nature was refined and 
sweet. The hardships he had already met with in the 
colony had not embittered him in the least. He grumbled 
at nothing, took* all things easily, and showed a smiling 
face to the world. When he presented himself to Anthony 
Bidaud he was really at his wits’ end, but though he had 
not tasted food that day he was not discouraged or dis- 
heartened. A clean conscience is a wonderful sustainer. 
“I am like a cat,” thought Basil, as he trudged blithely 
through the bush, “ I am bound to fall on my feet.” And 
fall on his feet he did that summer afternoon, which was 
to be the prelude of many happier days ; for before the 
night was over he told his host sufficient of his antecedents 
to satisfy Bidaud that his hospitality was not likely to be 
misplaced. Upon his persuasion his guest remained for a 
week, and then for another week, and so on till the present 
time. Bidaud 'was diffident in asking Basil to enter his 


24 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


service, and Basil, though he had come to the plantation 
with a vague idea of seeking employment, did not 
entertain it after his first introduction to Bidaud and his 
daughter. The terms upon which they had met and upon 
which he was received forbade his asking for employ- 
ment. It was gentleman and gentleman, not master and 
servant. But at length Bidaud, who had .learned sufficient 
to be aware that Basil’s purse was empty, and that he had 
no friends in the colony delicately pressed his guest upon 
the subject, and, as timidly as though he was asking a 
favor instead of being anxious to bestow one, hinted at 
some business connection between them. Basil, from 
scruples with which we are familiar, but which he did 
not explain to his host, would not entertain the idea, but 
firmly and courteously set it aside. 

“You have your future to look to,” said Bidaud. 

“There’s time enough to think of that,” said Basil, 
cheerfully. “I am not so very old.” 

Many. a time did Bidaud look with eyes of affection at 
Basil, and wish he had a son like him to whom he could 
entrust his darling Annette. Basil was a man peculiarly 
adapted to inspire affection in honest, simple hearts, and 
such a bond grew between him and Annette. Happy is 
the man whose manners cause children to regard him as 
one of themselves ; he possesses an inheritance of pleas- 
ant hours which money cannot purchase. Basil and An- 
nette, then, spent a great deal of time together, accom- 
panied by the faithful Bruno, and it gladdened the father’s 
heart to see his child so happy in the society of their new 
friend. 

“Father says your name is Whittingham,” said An- 
nette. 

“Yes, it is,” said the young man. 

“Mr. Whittingham.” 

“Yes. Do you like it ? ” 

“No. You must have another name.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


25 


“Of course I have. Basil.” 

“Basil. That is much nicer, ever so much nicer. I 
shall call you Basil.” 

“I shall feel honored, Annette.” 

This compact being made, Annette took him in hand ; 
the little maid had already discovered that she knew a 
great deal which he did not, and she set up a school, 
with Basil as her one pupil. Whether what she taught 
was likely to be of use to him in the battle of life he was 
bound to fight is an open question. Had some fore- 
knowledge come upon him as to the nature of that battle, 
and the roads into which it would lead him, he would 
have laughingly rejected it as the wildest of fancies. He 
was quite content with the present ; he had found an en- 
chanting companion, and time was passing delightfully. 
During Annette’s five years of motherless life she had 
acquired a wonderful knowledge of the fauna and the 
flora of the colony, and to these mysteries she introduced 
Basil. It is not incorrect to call them mysteries, for they 
are really so to ninety-nine out of every hundred colo- 
nials, who spend their lives in ignorance of the wonders 
by which they are surrounded. But it is so in all lands. 

Annette, then, opened Basil’s mind, and let in knowl- 
edge. She showed him how to snare game, which 
abounded in vast quantities, snipe, quail, and numerous 
varieties of duck, of which the whistling duck is the most 
curious, and the black duck the best eating ; she taught 
him the names of the strange and beautiful birds which 
found their home in the scrub and forests round about ; 
she described to him the different trees which grew in the 
neighborhood of the beautiful Pioneer River, and would 
not rest contented till he was familiar with them, and 
could give them their right names. 

“What is this, Basil ? ” 

“What is this, Annette? Why, a tree.” 

“But what kind of tree?” 


26 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


“ Oh, I beg your pardon. Ha — hum — oh, yes, it is the 
tea- tree.” 

“ It is not, Basil. It is the bottle-tree. ” 

“Well, the bottle-tree. Of course it is the bottle-tree. 
How could I be so stupid ? ” 

“You are not stupid ; you are inattentive. Do you see 
this hole cut in the tree ? ” 

‘ ‘ Of course I do. ’’ 

“ I will not have that answer. ‘ Of course I do * sounds 
as if I had no right to ask the question. Say ‘ I do/ ” 

“I do.” 

“And mean it, if you please.” 

“I mean it,” said Basil, with his hand on his heart, 
and a merry twinkle in his eyes. 

“Very good. You see the hole. Who cut it?” 

“On my word of honor, Annette, I haven’t the slight- 
est idea.” 

“It was cut by the blacks. Now, what did they cut 
it for? ” 

“ How on earth should I know ? ” 

“You ought to know. You have been brought up in a 
very bad school. I’ll show you what for. Out with your 
knife, Basil. Dig it in here, a long way under the hole. 
That is right. Now you can have a good drink of cold, 
sweet water. Is it not wonderful ? ” 

“Indeed it is. Like Oliver Twist, I ask for more.” 

The conversation instantly took another turn. There 
were but few books on the home station, and among 
them no work of fiction. It fell to Basil’s lot to open a 
new fairyland in the young girl’s life. “What was Oliver 
Twist?” “He was not a ‘what;’ he was a ‘who.’” 
“Then who was Oliver Twist? ” Basil told the story as 
well as he could, and afterwards told another ; and after 
the second tale, still another, this time a more simple 
one, from the magic cupboard of Hans Christian Ander- 
sen. It was long before they resumed their woodland 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


27 


lessons. Annette pointed out where the best figs and 
almonds grew, instructed him how to make bracelets and 
necklaces out of the stones of the quandong fruit, and 
where the sugar bags of the native bees were to be found. 
They caught a native bear, not a very ferocious creature, 
and tamed it in a few days so thoroughly that it followed 
them about like a dog, to the disgust of Bruno, who did 
not approve of the proceeding : they gathered wild ginger 
and wild nutmegs in the scrub, and in a famous creek 
they caught quantities of golden perch, with red eyes and 
double chins ; and once they saw two emus in the dis- 
tance, and heard the faint sound of their peculiar whistle. 
In such-like idling the days flew by, and the hours were 
all too short, but suddenly it dawned upon Basil that this 
lotus life could not last forever. It was from a sense of 
duty, and with a sinking heart (for the thought of parting 
from these good friends, especially from Annette, sorely 
oppressed him) that he intimated to Anthony Bidaud that 
he had lingered too long, and must go farther afield. 

“I must not outstay my welcome/' he said. 

“You cannot do that/’ said Bidaud. “Are you not 
happy here ? ” 

“ Too happy.” 

“No, one cannot be too happy,” said Bidaud, in a tone 
of great sadness. There was that weighing on his heart 
which he yearned to impart to some person in whom he 
could confide. He had thought of it for days past, and 
had resolved to unbosom his sorrow to the young gentle- 
man who had brought a new light of tenderness into the 
prosperous home. 

His story was told. Basil learned that the father feared 
he had not long to live, and that he was filled with 
apprehension at the contemplation of Annette being left 
without a friend. 

“You were born in Switzerland,” said Basil, thought- 
fully. “Is there no one connected with you in your own 


28 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 

country into whose charge you could give Annette?” 

‘‘It is twenty years since I left my native land,” said 
Bidaud, “and great changes must have taken place dur- 
ing that time.” 

“You left relatives there ? ” 

“Yes, a sister — and a brother.” His mention of his 
brother was made with evident reluctance. 

“Why not write to your brother,” asked Basil, “to 
come and receive the trust ? ” 

“Heaven forbid!” cried Bidaud. “Give my darling 
child into Gilbert’s care ! I would as soon give her into 
the care of a wolf ! No, no, it is not to be thought of. 
Six months ago I wrote to my sister, in whom I have 
some confidence — she is a woman, and would surely not 
ill-treat my child — informing her of my circumstances, 
and of the certain fate which awaited me, and imploring 
her to come out to me. I promised to provide for her, 
and for her family, if she had any. I thought that the 
knowledge that I was rich would tempt her. To that 
letter I have received no reply. Basil, ” — like his daugh- 
ter, he called his guest by his Christian name — “it is the 
sad and sober truth that you are the only friend upon 
whom I can rely to render me a service. Will you 
do so ? ” 

“If it is in my power,” said Basil, gravely. 

“You have given me the impression that you are alone 
in the world.” 

“Practically alone,” replied Basil. 

“With no kindred who have claims upon you.” 

“ My parents are dead ; I was their only child. There 
is but one man alive in England who is of my blood — an 
uncle whose heir I was to be, but who has cast me off.” 

“May I inquire for what reason ? ” 

“For a very serious reason. I did not know the value 
of money, he said. My father, when he died, was heavily 
involved, and I ruined myself in paying his debts. My 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


2 9 

uncle was angry at this, saying there was no obligation 
upon me to satisfy my father’s creditors. I held, and 
hold, a different opinion ; but the consequence was that 
my uncle abandoned his intention of making me his heir.” 

“My task is all the easier for your explanation. The 
service I am about to ask of you is no light one, and may 
be agreeable to you because it will open out a future 
which few men would turn their back upon. I do not 
say this to tempt you, for I know that you will be guided 
entirely by your own feelings, by your own sense of right 
and wrong, and that worldly advantage will weigh for 
nothing in the scale. You are fond of Annette.” 

“I love the child; I never met with a sweeter and 
more sympathetic nature than hers. She has strength of 
character, too.” 

“Do you think so?” asked Bidaud, anxiously. 

“ I am sure of it. Even now she rules me.” 

Bidaud shook his head with a sad smile. “ That is not 
a proof. You are content to be ruled, and what passes 
between you springs from affection. The strength of 
character required to battle with the world is of a different 
kind from that which Annette exhibits toward you. The 
service I ask you to render me concerns Annette.” 

“Why, then,” said Basil, gayly, “it is rendered before 
you ask for it.” 

“You must know its nature before you consent. It is 
nothing more nor less, Basil, than that you should stand 
to my child in the light of guardian.” 

Basil started. The tone in which this was spoken was 
that of a man who was convinced that the world was 
slipping from him. 

“Surely you are alarming yourself unnecessarily,’ said 
the young man. 

“ I am not. There are warnings which it would be 
criminal to neglect, especially where there is such a vital 
interest at stake as the happiness of an only and beloved 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


30 

child. 1 have received these warnings, and must be pre- 
pared. Say that the spiritual whisper which tells me that 
my end is approaching is false, is no faith to be placed in 
the doctors decree that my hours are numbered ? A man 
may have morbid fancies, but the teachings of experience 
and science are not to be lightly set aside and disregarded. 
If my fears prove groundless, so much the better for An- 
nette ; if they are confirmed — which they will be, Basil, 
nothing can alter it — so much the worse for her, unless 
needful preparation is made for the crisis in her young 
life. Will you now consent ? ” 

“ Let me hear more fully what you have to say,” replied 
Basil, gravely, “ before I fully pledge myself. You speak 
of a brother and sister in your own country, and you 
have written to one who may appear at any moment. 
The claim she has upon Annette, and the authority with 
which the laws of nature have invested her, are far 
stronger than those of any stranger. I am a young man, 
and the idea of becoming guardian to so tender and sweet 
a flower as Annette startles me. I ask myself, am I equal 
to a responsibility so serious, and the question reveals to 
me my own deficiencies, of which I am generally some- 
what painfully aware. It is really as though the most 
serious page in my life was about to be opened.” 


CHAPTER III. 

“I HAVE no fears,” said Anthony Bidaud, with a gentle 
smile, “on the score of your deficiencies. I have been 
no inattentive observer since the fortunate day upon which 
I first formed acquaintance with you. That you have had 
a disappointment in life counts for very little, and such 
small difficulties as befall a newcomer in this new land 
are scarcely to be accounted among the real difficulties of 
life. You do not yet know your own strength, but already, 


BASIL A HD AHNETTE. 


31 

in a position of serious responsibility, you have acted in 
a manner which few men would have had the courage to 
do. Your past is honorable, and contents me. You have 
a kind heart, and that adds to my content. Should the 
worst happen, my Annette will have by her side a true 
and honest counsellor. Reflect a moment. Say that I 
were to die to-morrow — nay do not argue with me ; death 
is the only certain thing in life, and it may come at any unex- 
pected moment to the strongest — say that I die to-morrow, 
what would be the position of my dear child ? I have an 
estate worth thousands of pounds ; she is a mere child, and 
could not manage it. She would become the prey of 
schemers, who would undoubtedly not deal fairly by her. 
I have a hundred servants on this plantation, and not a 
friend among them. By accident you enter into our 
lives. I use the term accident, but I believe it to be a 
providence. We are drawn to each other. 1 have observed 
you closely, and am satisfied to deliver into your hands a 
sacred charge, the charge of a young girl’s future. At 
such moments as these there comes to some men a subtle, 
unfathomable insight. It comes to me. I firmly believe 
that there is a link between you and my child which, if 
you do not recognize it now, you will be bound to recog- 
nize in the future. It may be broken in the present, but 
the threads will be joined as surely as we stand here side 
by side. Apart from this mysticism, to which I do not 
expect you to subscribe, there is a worldly, practical side 
which it is right and necessary you should understand. 
You ask for fuller information of my brother and sister. 

I will give it to you. That my brother and I did not part 
friends, and that his attitude towards me influenced my 
sister, was not my fault. I loved a young girl in my own 
station in life, and she loved me and afterwards became my 
wife. That my brother Gilbert loved her also was to be 
deplored ; we were not to be blamed for it, though Gilbert 
was furious — with me for loving her, with her for return- 


BASIL A I/D ANNETTE . 


32 

ing my love. I endeavored to remonstrate with him : 
he would not listen to me. ‘You have stepped in the 
way of my happiness/ he said ; ‘you shall rue it/ It is 
hard to speak harshly of one's flesh and blood, but it is 
the truth that the girl I loved was fortunate in not placing 
her affections upon him. He would have broken her heart. 
He was a spendthrift and a libertine, and would stop at 
little for the gratification of his selfish pleasures. He was 
furious against me, not so much because he loved Annette's 
mother, but because he could not have his own way. 
He was clever in crooked things, and in cunning shrewd- 
ness there were few to beat him. Educated as a doctor, 
he could have earned a good name if he had chosen to be 
industrious ; but he preferred to lead an idle, dissolute 
life. These evil courses caused him to be deeply in debt 
at the time of my father’s death. A portion of my father’s 
fortune, which was not very large, was left to me, and 
Gilbert endeavored to rob me of it, saying he was the 
elder, as he was by a year. With wedded life in view I 
resisted the attempt, and this angered him the more. He 
swore that he would never forgive me, and that he would 
be revenged upQn me. It was strange that my sister 
leaned more towards him than towards me, but that does 
sometimes happen with the scapegrace of the family. I 
am not endeavoring to blacken Gilbert's character for my 
own glorification. In drawing his picture I have dealt 
more than justly by him ; were he not my brother I should 
speak of actions of his which made me wonder how he 
and I could have been born of the same mother. It is 
that I wish you to understand why I did not write to him 
to come here and take charge of my dear child, and to 
understand why I said that I would as soon give her into 
the care of a wolf. I succeeded in obtaining my share of 
my father’s fortune, and soon afterwards married. Even 
then Gilbert did not cease from persecuting me. He 
would come and take up his quarters in our house, and 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


33 

insult my wife, and revile me, until our life became in- 
tolerable. It was then that we resolved to emigrate, 
chiefly to escape his persecutions. Then he showed us 
plainly that his love had changed to hate. He said to 
me before I left Switzerland, ‘One day I will be even 
with you. Remember my words — dead or alive, I will 
be even with you ! ’ Since that day I have never seen 
him, never heard from him, and I do not know whether 
he is still living. Upon our arrival in this colony fortune 
smiled upon us almost from the first. We were happy, very 
happy, and, as you see, I have been prosperous. But 
I have not been wise. I should have provided my child 
with a suitable companion at the death of my wife, though 
heaven knows where I should have found one ; but I 
should have tried. To marry again was impossible ; I 
loved my wife too well, and I could not be false to her 
memory. I have been worse than unwise ; I have neg- 
lected a serious duty. Up to this day I have shrunk 
from making a will, so that my affairs would get into 
confusion should anything happen to me. I have resolved 
to make instant amends for this neglect of duty. To-night 
I shall write to a lawyer to come to me without an hours 
delay, and he shall draw out my will before he departs. 
In this will it is my desire to appoint you manager of 
my estate and guardian of my child till she arrives at the 
age of twenty-one. It is not a bad prospect I hold out 
to you. At the end of seven years you will still be a 
young man, and if you elect to lea've Annette you can do 
so. She will by that time have learned from you all that 
is necessary to continue the management of the estate 
herself; but she will also then be free to act as she 
pleases : either to remain upon it, or to sell it and go 
elsewhere. I do not think there is anything more I can 
tell you to enable you to arrive at a decision. I do 
not urge you to comply with my desire because of any 
personal advantage that may accrue to yourself, but I 


34 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


beg of you as a friend to render me as great a service 
as it is in the power of one man to render to another. If 
you wish for time to consider this proposal take it, but 
decide before the arrival of the lawyer. One way or 
another, my will must be made before a week has passed.” 

But Basil did not ask for time ; he was deeply touched 
by the confidence reposed in him by Anthony Bidaud, 
and while the father spoke he had made up his mind. He 
had been very happy on the plantation ; he knew that it 
was a desirable home, and that within its domains could 
be found much that would make a man’s life agreeable 
and useful. He had come to the colony, as had thousands 
of other colonists, with the intention of making his for- 
tune and returning to England. He could not hope to 
make a fortune in a day, though wild ideas of gold-seek- 
ing — successful gold-seeking, of course — had floated 
through his mind. Suddenly, when his fortunes were at 
the lowest ebb, there was presented an opportunity which, 
unworthy as he was, he could not disguise from himself 
it would be folly to throw away. But it was due to An- 
thony Bidaud that the matter should not be concluded 
without something more being said. 

“ I need no time to consider,” he said. “Your pro- 
position is flattering and advantageous to myself. But 
you speak of not being wise. Are you wise in placing 
a trust so delicate and important in the hands of a 
stranger ? ” 

“ I am content to do so,” said Bidaud, “and I beg you 
to believe that the obligation will be on my side.” 

“After all,” suggested Basil, with a little touch of 
shrewdness, “it may be with you a choice of evils. 

“It is a choice of good,” observed Bidaud. 

“I have told you,” continued Basil, “ that I have not 
been educated into an understanding of business matters, 
and that my mission in life ” — here he smiled deprecat- 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


35 


ingly — “was to go through it in a gentlemanly way, 
without working for my living.” 

“ But you came to the colony to work.” 

“Yes. I am only endeavoring to prove to you how 
utterly unfit I am for the position you would assign to 
me.” 

“ I am entirely convinced,” said Bidaud, with a look of 
affection at the young man, “of your fitness for it.” 

“Think of my inexperience.” 

“ Experience will come to you as it came to me. You 
will learn as I did.” 

“ Then there is another view,” said Basil, and now he 
spoke with a certain hesitation. “You and Annette are 
here as father and daughter. It is not to be supposed that 
I could supply your place. I am a young man ; in a very 
few years Annette will be a young woman. Will not our 
relative positions then be likely to wound her suscepti- 
bilities ” 

“Do not finish,” said Bidaud, pressing Basil's hand 
warmly. “Leave all to time. Nothing but good can 
spring from what I propose. If Annette were now a 
young woman ” 

And here he himself purposely broke off in the middle 
of a sentence. Certainly his meaning could not be mis- 
taken. A flush came into Basil's face, and he did not 
speak again for a few moments. 

“Has the letter,” he then said, “you wrote to your 
sister been returned to you ? ” 

“No.” 

“Then it must have been delivered.” 

“Not necessarily. I am not sure whether undelivered 
letters addressed to Switzerland are returned to the colo- 
nial post-offices. If you have stated your principal objec- 
tions I see nothing in them to cause you to hesitate. You 
will consent? ” 

“Yes,” said Basil, “ I accept the trust,” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


36 

“With all my heart I thank you/’ said Anthony Bidaud ; 
then he placed his hands on Basil s shoulders, and said in 
a solemn tone, “ Guard my child. ” 

“ Whatever lies in my power to do,” said Basil, “shall 
be done.” 

Bidaud nodded and turned away ; his heart was too 
full to say more. Basil turned in another direction, with 
the intention of seeking Annette, in fulfilment of a promise 
he had made to join her in the woods. He knew where 
to find her. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Traversing a narrow, winding bridle track, he soon 
reached the river. A broad belt of white sand stretched on 
either side for some little distance, the water glistening 
like polished mirrors in its smooth deep reaches. Here 
and there it broke into a thousand tiny silver-crested waves, 
created by the inequalities in the ground. Farther on the 
main stream twisted into great clusters of dark green river 
oaks, and was lost to view. The white sands narrowed, 
and were replaced by rocks, covered with moss and lichen, 
and here a bark canoe was moored. Stepping on a large 
boulder, Basil jumped into the canoe, and loosening the 
rope, paddled down stream. The water ran like a mill 
race, and presently divided into two streams, beautified 
by waterfalls and fairy islands adorned with luxuriant 
vegetation. This dividing of the waters extended only 
some three or four hundred yards, at the termination of 
which they were united in one dark lagoon. A strange 
stillness reigned upon the surface of the water, but this 
sign of peace was insincere, the current in reality running 
hard and strong. Round about the canoe floated masses 
of white and mauve water lilies ; in parts the huge leaves 
formed a perfect carpet, which easily supported the light 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


37 

weight of the lotus birds as they skipped from shore to 
shore. At the lower end of the lagoon the stream became 
so narrow that a man could jump across it, and here Basil 
left his canoe, and plunged into the woods to find An- 
nette. 

She was sitting on a great patch of velvet moss, idling 
with some flowers of the wax plant and the yellow hibis- 
cus. Her back was towards Basil, who stepped softly, 
intending to surprise her, but the crackling of the leaves 
betrayed him. She turned quickly, and jumping up, ran 
to meet him. 

“ I have been waiting for you ever so long,” she said, 
and she slipped her hand into his. 

Basil made no excuse for being late ; an age seemed 
to have passed since he had last seen her, though scarcely 
three hours separated “ then” from “now.” But short as 
was really the interval it had effected an important alter- 
ation in their relations towards each other, and the con- 
templation of this change made him silent. Neither was 
Annette as talkative as usual, and they strolled idly along 
for some distance without exchanging a word. Basil had 
hitherto accepted Annettes beauty in a general sense ; 
she was pretty, she was bright, she was full of vivacity 
— that was all. Had she been a woman he would have 
subjected her to a closer and more analytical observation, 
for he had an artist’s eye for beauty, and loved to look at 
it in animate and inanimate nature ; but Annette was only 
a child, and he had paid her just that amount of attention 
which one pays to small wildflowers that grow by the 
wayside. But now, looking down upon her as she walked 
by his side, he observed that her eyes were hazel, and he 
said to himself that hazel eyes, in girl and woman, were 
the most beautiful eyes in the world. The hazel color in 
the eyes he was gazing upon was brilliant, and Basil said 
to himself that it was the brilliant hazel eyes that are the 
most beautiful in the world, Annette’s features were not 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


38 

exactly regular, but formed as. fair a picture of human 
loveliness as a man would wish to see, her lips sweetly 
curved, her teeth white and shapely, her ears like little 
shells, her golden brown hair gathered carelessly about 
the gracefully shaped head. Yes, Annette was beautiful 
even now as a child ; how much more beautiful was she 
likely to be when her springtime was fully set in ! 

Raising her head suddenly she saw that Basil was gaz- 
ing at her more earnestly and closely than he was in the 
habit of doing. 

“I was looking at your eyes, Annette,” he said, rather 
guiltily. “ I never noticed their color till to-day.” 

“ They are hazel. Do you like hazel eyes ? ” 

“ Very much.” 

“I am glad of that. My eyes are like my mother’s. 
Will you come with me? ” 

“Where? ” 

“To her grave.” 

He had visited it before with Annette, and they now 
walked towards the canoe, gathering wildflowers as they 
walked. Once Annette slipped, and he caught her and 
held her up ; there was an unusual tenderness in the action, 
and Annette nestled closer to him, and smiled happily. 
In the canoe her skilful fingers were busily at work, weav- 
ing the flowers they had gathered into garlands to lay 
upon her mother s grave. She had a special gift in such- 
like graceful tasks, but then her heart was in her fingers. 
The loving homage was reverently rendered when they 
reached the spot, and Basil assisted her in clearing the 
dead leaves and in planting some fresh roots she had 
brought with her from the woods. 

Her task accomplished, Annette sat beside the grave, 
with a wistful expression on her face which made Basil 
wonder what was stirring in her mind. He waited for 
her to break the silence, and presently she spoke, 

“What makes you so quiet, Basil ? ” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


39 

“ I do not know. Perhaps it is because you have said 
so little, Annette. ,, 

“I have been thinking/’ 

“Yes?” 

“ I wanted all day to speak to you about it. I thought 
I would when we were in the wood alone ; then you 
spoke of my eyes and I thought of my dear mother. You 
would have loved her, Basil, and she would have loved 
you. She hears me now — yes, she hears and sees me, 
Basil, and I think she is glad you came to us.” 

“ I am glad, too, Annette.” 

“ Really glad, Basil ? ” 

“ Really glad, Annette.” 

“Then you will not go away from us ? ” 

“What makes you ask that?” Her question, tremu- 
lously uttered, formed a pregnant link in the promise he 
had given her father. 

“It is my dream,” said Annette. “I dreamt it last 
night, and it made me sad. You came to say good-bye, 
and I was unhappy at the thought that I should never see 
you again. Basil, if that was to happen I should be sorry 
you ever came at all.” 

“ Then you wish me to stay? ” 

“Dearly, Basil, dearly! I thought I would speak to 
father about it ; then I thought I would speak to you 
first.” 

“ Did you not speak to your father?” 

“Not about my dream ; but about your going away, 
yes. I asked him to persuade you to stop with us.” 

“ Because, Annette ” he said, and paused. 

“Because I love you, Basil. I told father so, and he 
said he loved you, too, and that he wished he had a son 
like you. Then you would be my brother, and I should 
be very happy. But father said he was afraid you intended 
to leave us soon, and that made me dream, I suppose.” 

“Annette, listen to me.” 


40 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“I am listening, Basil.” 

“Your father has spoken to me, and that is why I was 
so late in coming to you. He asked me to remain here, 
and I promised him I would.” 

“You did? Oh, Basil!” Her voice expressed the 
most perfect joy. She had risen in her excitement, and 
was now leaning towards him, her lips parted, her eyes 
glowing. 

“Yes, Annette, I promised him, and I promise you. 
For some years at least we will live together.” 

She threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him. 

“That will be forever, Basil. You have made me so 
happy, so happy ! ” 

“ So that is all settled,” he said. “But I shall be a 
tyrant, Annette.” 

“I don’t mind, Basil; I will be very good and obe- 
dient. Do you hear, Bruno, do you hear?” She knelt 
and kissed the faithful dog, and pressed his head to her 
bosom. “ Basil is not going away. He will remain here 
forever — forever ! ” 

Basil was very grateful for the little maid’s affection, 
grateful that his lines had fallen in such pleasant places. 
What more could man desire? But there was a shadow 
gathering and swiftly approaching which neither of them 
could see. 

They stopped out later than usual that evening, and 
when they returned to the house Annette was radiant. 

“Basil has promised to remain with us, father,” she 
said, in a voice of great joy. 

“ He has told you, then, dear child ? ’’ 

“Yes, father, yes. He will stop with us forever. I 
don’t wish for anything now.” 

The three happy beings sat together in the verandah 
during the few brief minutes that divided day and night. 
In those latitudes there is but little twilight, and the Ion 
peaceful rest of an English sunset is unknown. For 


bJ3 C3 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


41 

few moments the brilliancy was dazzling. Great clouds 
of amethyst and ruby spread over the western skies, 
melting soon into soberer shades of purple and crimson. 
Then the sun dipped down and disappeared, and the 
skies were overspread with a veil of faded gold, behind 
which the white stars glittered. 

Their souls were in harmony with the spiritual influence 
of the lovely scene, and there was an ineffable peace in 
their hearts. Annette kissed Basil before she retired to 
rest, and whispered : 

“ Brother Basil, I shall have happier dreams to-night.” 

He kissed her tenderly, and bade her good-night. Un- 
clouded happiness shone in her eyes as she stole to her 
room, where she knelt by her bedside, and uttered the 
name of Basil in her prayers. 

Anthony Bidaud gazed at his daughter till she entered 
the house, and even then kept his eyes fixed upon the 
door through which she had disappeared. 

“ It is years,” he said to Basil, “since I have felt so 
thoroughly content as I do to-night. Come to my room 
early in the morning ; I shall not write to my lawyer till 
then, and I wish you to see the letter.” 

Shortly after all the inmates of the house were asleep. 

And while they slept, there walked across the distant 
plains towards the plantation, a man and a woman who 
had had that goal in view for three months past. It was 
summer when they left their home across the seas. It 
was summer when they reached the land to which the 
woman had been summoned. But, judging from their 
faces, no summer errand was theirs. 

“ Walk quicker, ” said the man surlily. “ We must get 
there before sunrise. My heart is bent upon it.” 

“I am fit to drop,”. said the woman. “How much 
farther have we to go ? ” 

ft According to informatipn, fifteen miles, Walk quicker, 


42 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


quicker ! Have you travelled so far to faint at the last 
moment? Remember, we have not one penny left to 
purchase food, and have already fasted too many hours. 
I see visions of ease and comfort, of wine and food, aye, 
and of riches too. I am eager to get at them.” 

“ Do you remember,” said the woman, “that you were 
not bidden to come ? ” 

“What of that?” retorted the man. “I have my tale 
ready. Leave me to play my part. Our days of poverty 
are over. This is the last of them. Walk quicker, 
quicker ! ” 


CHAPTER V. 

A little after sunrise Basil was awake and out, hasten- 
ing to the river for his morning bath. He had slept well 
and soundly, but he had had vivid dreams. The events 
of the day had sunk deep in his mind ; it would have 
been strange otherwise, for they had altered the currents 
of his whole future life. They had furnished him with a 
secure and happy home ; they had placed him in a posi- 
tion of responsibility which he hailed with satisfaction 
and a sense of justifiable pride ; moreover, they had as- 
sured him that he had won the affection of a kind and 
generous gentleman and of a sweet-tempered and gentle 
little maid. He was no longer an outcast ; he was no 
longer alone in the world. 

Until this void was supplied he had not felt it. Young, 
buoyant, and with a fund of animal spirits which was 
the secret of his cheerful nature, sufficient for the day had 
been the good thereof ; but now quite suddenly an un- 
expected and sweetly serious duty had been offered to 
him, and he had accepted it. He would perform it faith- 
fully and conscientiously. 

Every word Anthony Bidaud had spoken to him had 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


43 

impressed itself upon his mind. He could have repeated 
their conversation almost word for word. It was this 
which had inspired his dreams, which formed, as it were, 
a panorama of the present and the future. 

Annette as she was at this moment, a child, appeared 
to him, and he lived over again their old delightful ram- 
bles ; for although it was but yesterday that they were 
enjoyed, the duty he had taken upon himself seemed to 
send them far back into the past ; but still Annette was a 
child, and her sunny ways belonged to childhood. The 
story of “ Paul and Virginia ” had been a favorite with 
him when he was a youngster, and his dreams at first 
were touched by the color of that simple tale. The life 
he had lived these last few weeks on Anthony Bidaud’s 
plantation favored the resemblance ; the South-Sea Isl- 
anders who worked on the land, the waterfalls, the 
woods, the solitudes, the protecting bond which linked 
him to Annette — all formed in his sleeping fancies a com- 
panion idyll to the charming creation of Bernardin de 
Saint-Pierre. He carried Annette over the river, he wan- 
dered with her through the shadows of the mountains, they 
were lost and found, they sat together under the shade 
of the velvet sunflower-tree ; and in this part of his dreams 
he himself was a youth, and not a man. 

So much for the present, and it was due to his light 
heart and the happiness he had found that his dreams 
did not take the color of the subsequent tragedy which 
brought the lives of those woodland children to their sad 
and pathetic end. His future and Annette’s was brighter 
than that of Paul and Virginia. He beheld her as a 
woman, and he still her protected She represented the 
beauty of the entire world of thought and action. Her 
figure was faultless, her face most lovely, her movements 
gracefully perfect. There are countenances upon which 
an eternal cloud appears to rest, and which even when 
they smile are not illumined. Upon Annette's coun- 


44 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


tenance rested an eternal sunshine, and this quality of 
light irradiated not only all surrounding visible objects, 
but all hopes and feelings of the heart. When Basil 
awoke these felicitous fancies were not obliterated or 
weakened, as most such fancies are in waking moments, 
and as he walked towards the river they lightened his 
footsteps and made him glad. Wending his way along a 
cattle track dotted with gum-trees, he saw beneath the 
branches of one a woman whose face was strange to him. 
She was neither English nor antipodean, and as she re- 
clined in an attitude of fatigue against the tree’s trunk 
there was about her an air of exhaustion which stirred 
Basil to compassion for her apparently forlorn condition. 
He remembered his own days and nights of weary 
tramping through the bush. He paused and looked 
down upon her, and she peered up at him through her half- 
closed lids. 

“ Good-morning,” said Basil. 

“ Is it? ” she asked, with a heavy sigh. 

“ Is it what ? 

“ Good-morning. To me it is a bad morning.” 

Basil looked round. The heavens were luminous with 
vivid color, the birds were flying busily to and from 
their nests, nature’s myriad pulses throbbed with glad- 
ness. To him it was the best, the brightest of days. But 
this sad woman before him was. pale and worn; there 
were traces not only of exhaustion but of hunger in her 
face. 

“You are hungry,” said Basil. 

“Don’t mock me,” said the woman, in no gracious 
tone ; “let me rest.” 

“ If you follow this track,” persisted Basil, “the way 
I have come, you will see the Home Station. They will 
give you breakfast there. ” 

For a moment the woman appeared inclined to accept 
his kindness ; she made a movement upwards, but almost 
immediately she relinquished her intention. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


45 


“ No, ” she said, ‘ ‘ I will wait. ” 

He was loth to leave her in her distressful plight, but 
her churlish manner was discouraging. 

“Will you not let me help you ? ” 

“You can help me,” said the woman, “by leaving 
me.” 

He had no alternative. “If you think better of it,” he 
said, “ you can obtain shelter and food at the Home Sta- 
tion. ” Then he passed on to the river. 

A stranger was there, already stripping, for the purpose 
of bathing. Scarcely looking at him, Basil was about 
to remove to a more retired spot when he observed 
something in the water which caused him to run to the 
man, who was removing his last garment, and seize his 
arm. 

“What for ? ” demanded the stranger. 

He spoke fairly good English, as did the woman who 
had declined his assistance, but with a foreign accent. 
He was brown, and thin, and wrinkled, and Basil saw 
at once that he was not an Englishman. 

“I presume you have not breakfasted yet,” was Basil's 
apparently inconsequential answer to the question. 

“Not yet,” said the stranger impatiently, shaking him- 
self free from Basil’s grasp. “ Why do you stop me? Is 
not the river free ? ” 

“Quite free,” said Basil; “but instead of eating you 
may be eaten.” 

He pointed downwards, and leaning forward the 
stranger beheld a huge alligator lurking beneath a thin 
thicket of reeds. The brute was perfectly motionless, but 
all its voracious senses were on the alert. 

“Ugh!” cried the stranger, beginning to dress hur- 
riedly. “ That would be a bad commencement of my 
business. ” 

He did not say “thank you,” nor make the slightest 
acknowledgment of the service Basil had rendered him. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


46 

This jarred upon the young man, who stood watching 
him get into his clothes. They were ragged and travel- 
stained, and the stranger’s physical condition was evi- 
dently none of the best ; but his eyes were keen, and all 
his intellectual forces were awake. In this respect Basil 
found an odd resemblance in him to the alligator waiting 
for prey in the waving reeds beneath, and also a less odd 
resemblance to the woman he had left lying in the 
shadow of the gum-trees. 

“ You have business here, then ? ” asks the young man. 

“I have — important business. Understand that I 
answer simply to prove that I am not an intruder,” 

“I understand. Is the woman I met on my way. a 
relative of yours ? ” 

“What woman ?” cried the stranger, in sharp accents. 

“ Like you in face, and bearing about her signs of hard 
travel.” 

“Did she speak to you? Why do you question me 
about her ? By what right ? ” 

“ There is no particuar right in question that I can see,” 
said Basil. “I spoke to her as I am speaking to you, 
and asked if I could serve her.” 

“And she ? ” 

“Was as uncivil as yourself, and declined my offers 
of assistance.” 

‘ ‘ She acted well. We are not beggars. For my incivil- 
ity, that is how you take it. You misconstrue me.” 

“ I am glad to hear it. You seem tired. ” 

“ I have been walking all day and all night, and all 
day and night again, for more days and nights than I 
care to count. I have done nothing but walk, walk, walk, 
since my arrival at this world's end.” 

“ Have you but just arrived ? ” 

“Yes, but just arrived, wearied and worn out with 
nothing but walking, walking, walking. Is that what 
this world's end was made for? ” 


BAS/L AND ANNETTE. 


47 


If the stranger had not stated that he had important 
business to transact, and had there not been something 
superior in his speech and deportment to the ordinary- 
tramp with whom every man in the Australian col- 
onies is familiar, Basil would have set him down as a 
member of that delectable fraternity. Notwithstanding 
this favorable opinion, however, Basil took an instinctive 
dislike to the man. He had seen in. him an odd likeness 
to the alligator, and brief as had been their interview up 
to this point, he had gone the length of mentally com- 
paring him now to a fox, now to a jackal — to any member 
of the brute species indeed whose nature was distinguished 
by the elements of rapacity and cunning. 

“ Have you far to go ? ” he asked. 

“No farther/' replied the stranger, with an upward 
glance at Anthony Bidaud’s house, one end of which 
was visible from the spot upon which they were con- 
versing. 

“Is that your destination?" inquired Basil, observing 
the upward glance. 

“That,” said the stranger, with a light laugh, “is my 
destination, if I have not been misinformed.” 

“The laugh intensified Basils dislike; there was a 
mocking sinister ring in it, but he nevertheless continued 
the conversation. 

“Misinformed in what respect? ” 

“That is M. Bidaud’s house?” 

“It is M. Bidaud’s house.” 

“M. Anthony Bidaud? ” 

“Yes.” 

“Originally from Switzerland?” 

Basil’s hazard of the stranger’s precise nationality now 
took definite form. 

“ As you are,” he said. 

“As I am, ’’said the stranger, “and as Anthony Bidaud 
is.” 


4 8 BASIL AND A NNE TTE. 

“You are right in your surmise. He is from Switzer- 
land.’ ’ 

“ My surmise ? Ah ! He has a fine estate here.” 

“He has. ” 

“ But his wife — she is dead ? ” 

“That is so, unhappily.’’ 

“What is one man’s meat is another man’s poison — a 
proverb that may be reversed.” His small eyes glittered, 
and his thin pointed features seemed all to converge to 
one point. (“Fox, decidedly,” thought Basil.) The 
stranger continued : “ His health, is it good? ” 

In the light of Anthony Bidaud’s revelation on the pre- 
vious evening, this was a startling question, and Basil 
answered : “ It is an inquiry you had best make of him- 
self if you are likely to see him.” 

“It is more than likely that I shall see him,” said the 
stranger, “and he will tell me. He has but one child?” 

“ You are well informed. He has but one. ” 

“Whose name is Annette? ” 

“Whose name,” said Basil, wondering from what source 
the stranger had obtained his information, “is Annette.” 

“Charming, charming, charming,” said the stranger. 
“Everything is charming, except” — with a loathing 
gesture at the alligator, which lay still as a log, waiting 
for prey — “that monster ; and except also that I am dead 
with fatigue. I came here for a bath to refresh myself after 
much travelling. Is there any part of this treacherous 
river in which a man may bathe in safety ? ” 

“ I will show you a place.” 

“No tricks, young sir,” said the stranger, suspicion in 
his voice. 

“ Why should I play you tricks ? If you do not care to 
trust me, seek a secure spot yourself.” 

“ No, I will accompany you, who must know the river 
well. You do, eh ? ” 

“I am thoroughly acquainted with it/' 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


49 

“You guessed my nation. Shall I guess yours? Aus- 
tralian. ” 

“ I am an Englishman.*’ 

“A great nation ; a great people. Is this the spot ? ” 

They had arrived at a smooth reach of water, semicir- 
cularly protected by rocks from the invasion of alligators. 

“This is the spot/’ said Basil ; “ you will be perfectly 
safe here.” 

The water was so clear that they could see to the 
bottom. Black and silver bream, perch, mullet, and 
barramundi were swimming in its translucent depths. 
The stranger peered carefully among the rocks to make 
sure that they were free from foes, and then, without 
thanking Basil, began to strip off his clothes. 

“ And you — where will you bathe? ” 

“A little farther up stream. Good-morning.” 

“Ah, good-morning ; but I may see you again if you 
are living near.” 

“ I live,” said Basil, “in the house yonder.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

A sudden excitement was observable in the stranger. 
He paused in his undressing, and laid his hand on Basil’s 
arm, clutching with nervous fingers. 

“You are very intimate with M. Anthony Bidaud? ” he 
said. 

“We are friends.” 

“Friends? Ah! You are not .related ? No, you cannot 
be, for you are English. Yet there are other ties. His 
wife is dead, you say, and as I know. Yes, dead. But 
he may be looking for another, may be already married 
again.” He spoke in feverish haste. (“A touch of the 
jackal here,” thought Basil.) “Tell me, you friend of M, 

Anthony Bjdaud t M 


50 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“ He is not married again,” said Basil, “and to my 
knowledge is not seeking another wife.” 

The stranger drew a long breath of relief, followed im- 
mediately by the exhibition of a new suspicion. 

“ His daughter, Annette — if he spoke truth, a child. 
But men lie sometimes, very often ; you, I, all men. He 
married long, long ago, and this Annette may well be a 
young woman of twenty.” He scowled as he looked at 
Basil’s handsome face. “Is she married, or going to be ? ” 

“Absurd,” said Basil ; but a little touch of color came 
into his face which the sharp eyes of the stranger noted ; 
“she is scarcely fourteen years of age.” 

“ Good, good. Time, let us hope, to prevent mischief. 
But, pardon me ; if you live in the house of M. Bidaud, 
there must be a reason. You do not look like a common 
laborer ; you are something better, a gentleman — eh ? ” 
Again all his thin, pointed features seemed, foxlike, to 
converge to one point. 

“I am a gentleman,” said Basil, “and I am staying 
with M. Bidaud as a guest.” He referred to the present, 
not feeling warranted in speaking of the future. The 
arrangement he had entered into with Anthony Bidaud 
had yet to be carried into effect. 

“Ah, ah ; as a guest, only as a guest, but with an eye 
to the future, perhaps. M. Anthony Bidaud is rich, and 
in two years his daughter, his only child, will be sixteen, 
and nearly ripe. There is a saying, is there not, among 
you English, that welcomes the coming and speeds the 
parting guest ? I have been in your country, and know 
something of its literature, and in my own land my 
education was not neglected. That saying about the 
coming and parting guest is a good omen, for I have but 
just arrived, and you ” 

But Basil did not wait to hear the •conclusion of the 
sentence. Annoyed at the turn the conversation had taken 
he turned on his heel, and left the stranger to enjoy his 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


51 

bath. He walked slowly to his own, rather ruffled by 
the interview. 

“Who can he be?” he thought, as he prepared for his 
swim. “ He seems to be acquainted with M. Bidaud and 
with his personal history. What on earth made me answer 
his interminable questions ? His pertinacity, I suppose, 
and a kind of magnetism in him which it was hard to 
resist. But I might have been courteous without being 
communicative. I said nothing, however, of my own 
prompting, and his questions followed each other natu- 
rally. What he learnt from me he could have learnt from 
a dozen others, and after all there is no harm done. He 
certainly has the knack of rubbing the wrong way; an 
extraordinary annoying fellow, but neither loutish nor 
ignorant. That is why I was constrained to follow his 
lead. This is his destination ; his business, then, must 
be with M. Bidaud. Important business, he said — and 
with Annette's father. I do not like his references to 
Annette. Will it be right or wrong for me to convey my 
impressions of this stranger to M. Bidaud? Wrong. I 
will merely mention that I met with such a man, who 
was coming to the house upon business. He spoke of 
having walked a long way. He must be poor, or he 
would have chosen another mode of conveyance, espe- 
cially as he seems to be in somewhat feverish haste. 
Being poor is nothing against him ; I am poor myself. 
Psha ! What a worry I am making of nothing ! ” 

He could not dismiss the subject, however, and the 
currents of his thoughts ran on even as he swam. 

“The woman I met on my way to the river; how 
skilfully he evaded my inquiries as to the relationship 
between them ! His tone when he spoke of her showed 
that he had power over her. I have not the least doubt he 
is the kind of man who can make himself intensely dis- 
agreeable. Poor woman ! There is a resemblance in 

o 

their features; I have read that husband and wife fre- 


52 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


quently grow like each other in face. She was hungry, 
but she declined the offer of a good meal. Acting, I 
should say, under her husband’s instructions, and too 
frightened of him to disobey him. Faithful creatures, 
women. Patient as camels, some of them, and as docile. 
A hard tramp she seems to have had of it, and he has not 
spared her. Well, she can rest here a few days. Would 
I like them to remain on the plantation ? No. He would 
keep me in a continual state ^of irritation. His allusions 
to Annette were in the worst of taste. I dare say before 
the day is out I shall know the nature of his business. 
M. Bidaud will tell me. Confound the fellow ! I’ll not 
think of him any more.” 

As a contribution towards this end he plunged half a 
dozen times into the deepest parts of the river, and finally 
emerged, glowing. The disturbing impressions produced 
by the stranger were dissipated, and Basil thought it 
would look churlish if, on his road back to the house, he 
did not go to see whether he could be of any service 
to him. He saw nothing, however, of the man or the 
woman, and, greatly refreshed, he proceeded to the house. 
The sun was now high in the heavens, and the laborers 
were at work on the plantation. He exchanged greetings 
with a few of the better sort, and inquired whether they 
had seen anything of the strangers. They replied in the 
negative; they had seen nothing. of them. 

“ Have you, Rocke ? ” he asked of one who was regard- 
ing him with a scowl. 

“No,” said Rocke. “What business is it of mine?” 

It was Rocke’s misfortune to always wear a scowl on 
his face, but in this scowl there were degrees. To pro- 
duce an amiable smile was with Rocke an impossibility ; 
nature had been cruel, and his parents, one or both of 
them, had transmitted to him a sour temper as an in- 
heritance ; but the state of his feelings could be correctly 
judged by the kind of scowl he wore ; a nice observer could 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


53 

scarcely make a mistake as to whether he tolerated, dis- 
liked, or hated the man he was gazing on. There could 
be no mistake made now ; he hated Basil. 

There was a reason. Every man has his good points, 
even the worst of men, and Rocke’s good point was that 
he conscientiously performed the duties for which he was 
engaged. However hard the work before him, done it 
was with a will — and a scowl. Now, this was a distinct 
virtue, and Anthony Bidaud # gave him credit for it, and 
appreciated the conscientious worker, as any other master 
would do of a man who gave him full value for his wage. 
So far, so good ; master and man were satisfied. But 
before Basils arrival on the plantation Rocke had got it 
into his head — which was not an intellectual head — that 
Anthony Bidaud entertained the notion of creating a 
general supervisor and manager of the estate, and that he, 
Rocke, was the man to be appointed ; and since Basil’s 
arrival his ambitious dream was disturbed by the con- 
viction that Basil would step into the shoes he wished to 
wear. 

“I don’t know that it is any business of yours,” said 
Basil to Rocke, “ only I thought you might have seen 
these persons.” 

“Well, I haven’t,” said Rocke. 

Basil nodded cheerfully, and proceeded towards the 
house. He was not a man of paroxysms ; except upon 
very special occasions his temperament was equable. 
As to whether Rocke had spoken the truth or no he did 
not speculate ; it was not in Rocke he was interested, but 
in the man and the woman with whom he had spoken on 
his way to the river. 

Anthony Bidaud was an early riser, and Basil went to 
the room in which the master of the plantation was in 
the habit of transacting his private business. He knocked 
twice or thrice at the door without receiving an answer, 
and then, turning the handle, he entered the room. 


54 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


Anthony Bidaud was reclining in the chair in which he 
usually sat when engaged in correspondence. His back 
was towards Basil, and before him on the table writing 
materials were spread. He sat quite still, and for a mo- 
ment or two the young man was uncertain what to do. 
Then he called Bidaud by name. No answer came, and 
Basil, surprised at the stillness, advanced to Bidaud, and 
stood immediately behind him. Still no notice was taken 
of Basil. Then he laid his hand upon Bidaud’s shoulder. 
The occupant of the chair did not move, and Basil leaned 
anxiously forward to look into his face. At first Basil 
believed him to be asleep, but a closer examination sent 
the blood rushing to the young man’s heart in terror. 
Bidaud’s arm hung listlessly by his side, and upon his 
face dwelt an expression of acute suffering. Again Basil 
called him by name, and shook him roughly, but no 
responsive word or movement greeted him from the quiet 
figure in the chair. Basil thrust his hand into Bidaud’s 
shirt over the region of his heart, and trembled to meet 
with no pulsation there. He raised Bidaud’s arm and 
released it. It dropped lifeless down. 

“Merciful heavens!” cried Basil, looking helplessly 
around. “Can this be death ? ” 

The question he asked of himself was heard by another 
man. The stranger he had met on the banks of the river 
had noiselessly opened the door, and now advanced to 
the chair. 

“Who speaks of death? ” asked the stranger. “ Ah, it 
is you, who are a guest in this house. And I find you 
and him ” — he stretched a long bony finger at the recum- 
bent figure of Anthony Bidaud — -“Here together, alone. 
You with a face of fear, terror, and excitement ; he quite 
still, quite still ! ” 

He was perfectly composed, and there was a malicious 
smile on his lips as he confronted Basil. Dazed by the 
situation, Basil could find no words to reply. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


55 

“You are confounded, ” continued the stranger. “It 
needs explanation. Who is this man sitting so quietly in 
his chair ? ” 

“M. Anthony Bidaud,” said Basil, with white lips, 
“ the master of this house/' 

“Ah, M. Anthony Bidaud, the master of this house,” 
said the stranger echoing Basil’s words, but whereas 
Basil’s voice was agitated, his had not a tremor in it. “I 
will see if you are speaking the truth.” He lowered his 
face and his eyes rested upon the face of the motionless 
figure. “ Yes, it is he, Anthony Bidaud, worn, alas ! and 
wasted. Sad, sad, sad ! ” Grief was expressed in the 
words but not in the tone of the speaker. “What was it 
you asked a moment ago ? Can this be death ? I am a 
doctor. I will tell you.” 

Lifting the lifeless form in his arms he laid it upon a 
couch, and tearing open the shirt and waistcoat, placed 
his ear to Anthony Bidaifd’s heart ; then took his pulse 
between finger and thumb. He proceeded with his ex- 
amination by taking from his pocket a little leather case 
containing a small comb and a narrow slip of looking 
glass. Rubbing the surface of the glass dry with a hand- 
kerchief that had dropped to the ground, he passed it 
over the mouth of Anthony Bidaud ; then held it up to 
the light. 

“Yes,” he said, looking Basil full in the face, “it is 
death. It is lucky I travelled hither in the night, and did 
no,t allow myself to be delayed by fatigue. Fortune, I 
thank you. You have treated me scurvily hitherto ; at 
length you relent, and smile upon me. Being a lady, I 
kiss my hand to you.” 

There was something so inexpressibly heartless in the 
action that Basil cried indignantly, “Who are you, and 
by what right have you intruded yourself into this room ? " 

The stranger did not immediately reply. He felt in 
his pocket for a snuff-box, and producing it regaled him- 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


56 

self with a pinch. He offered the box to Basil, who 
pushed it aside. He smiled and replaced the box in his 
pocket, and was also about to replace the leather case, 
when an amusing thought occurred to him. He dressed 
his hair with the comb and gazed at himself in the glass 
with an affectation of vanity. His smile broadened as 
he noticed the look of horror in Basil’s face. 

“ You wish to know,” he said slowly, “ who I am, and 
by what right I intrude myself into this room ? You 
have presumption, you, M. Anthony Bidaud’s guest, to 
use the word ‘ intrude ’ to me ! I am this dead gentleman’s 
brother. My name is Gilbert Bidaud. Eh? Did you 
speak ? ” 


CHAPTER VII. 

So many conflicting emotions had been pressed into 
the last few minutes that Basil was utterly bewildered. 
The cold, sardonic face before him, wreathed into mock- 
ing smiles even in the presence of death, added to his be- 
wilderment. He passed his hand across his eyes, 
wondering whether he was dreaming, but removing his 
hand from his forehead he saw the dead form of Anthony 
Bidaud on the sofa, and heard the light laugh of the man 
who called himself Anthony’s brother. This laugh re- 
called him to himself ; he was in full possession of his 
senses, and understood what had occurred, and to some 
extent what it portended. 

Gilbert Bidaud ! And the woman with him was not his 
wife, but his sister, to whom Annette’s father had written 
six months ago, imploring her to come to him, and prom- 
ising to provide for her and her family. That being 
so, she was here by authority. She was but an instru- 
ment in the hands of Gilbert Bidaud, whose lightest word 
she was constrained to obey. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


57 


Gilbert Bidaud ! 

“ It is hard to speak harshly of one's flesh and blood, 
but it is the truth that the girl I loved was fortunate in 
not placing her affections upon him. He would have 
broken her heart. He was a spendthrift and a libertine, 
and would stop at little for the gratification of his selfish 
pleasures." 

It was but last evening that these words were spoken 
by lips that would never speak again, and now this spend- 
thrift and libertine was within touch of him, was standing 
with a smiling face by the dead body of the brother he 
would have wronged. There came to Basil's mind the 
image of Annette, the sweet confiding girl, who was to 
have been given into his care to guard and protect. All 
that was over now. Inexorable death had stopped the 
fulfilment of the fond father’s wish. And Annette herself, 
how would it fare with her? She was ignorant as yet of 
the crushing terrible blow which had so suddenly fallen 
upon her. Who would impart the cruel news to her? 
Who would comfort her in her bereavement ? Even as 
these reflections crossed his mind he heard the young 
girl’s voice singing outside as she tripped downstairs from 
her bedroom. He glided to the door, and softly turned 
the key. Just in time. Annette lingered at the door, 
tried the handle gently with the intention of kissing her 
father good-morning, and, finding the door fast, passed 
on gayly and continued her song. 

“ That is Annette ? " questioned Gilbert Bidaud. Basil 
nodded. “A sweet voice, the voice of a child, whose 
nature is not yet moulded. We will mould it, my sister 
and I. We will instil into her virgin soul, principles. 
She will be grateful that we have come, being of her 
blood. I have a number of your English sayings at my 
fingers’ ends. Blood is thicker than water. I repre- 
sent the one, you the other. She is not a woman — yet. 
The mind of a child is like a slate ; fancies, likings, are 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


58 

easily rubbed off. It is more serious when we grow older. 
The child forgets. The woman remembers. Do you 
catch my meaning?” 

“ I should be sorry to say I did,” replied Basil. 

“ Ah, you would pay me a compliment, gilding me 
with virtues to which I do not aspire, to which I have 
never aspired. I am a plain man, I ; honest to the back- 
bone ; with my heart on my sleeve, transparent. It has 
not paid up to this time, but my hour has come. Why 
did you lock the door ? ” 

“ Does not that answer you ? ” pointing to the dead 
body of Annette’s father. 

“ Ah, she does not know. You are considerate, you.” 
A strange smile came to his lips as he added, “ No one 
knows but you and I.” 

Basil stepped to the table. Perhaps the letter which 
Anthony Bidaud intended to write to his lawyer was there ; 
it might contain something by which he could be guided 
at this dread crisis. But the sheet of paper which An- 
thony Bidaud had taken from the open desk displayed 
only the mark of a scrawl at the top. The pen, with the 
ink scarcely dried in it, lay upon the table. Evidently at 
the very moment that Anthony Bidaud had put pen to paper 
he was visited by the death-stroke. The pen had dropped 
from his fingers, and he had fallen back lifeless in his 
chair. There was, however, an addressed envelope, and 
Basil noted the name and the direction, which were those 
of the lawyer whom Anthony Bidaud intended to sum- 
mon to the plantation. 

Gilbert Bidaud had followed his movements attentively, 
and now, when Basil looked up from the table, he repeated 
the last words he had uttered. 

“No one knows but you and 1.” 

“ What do you mean by that ?” demanded Basil. 

“ What I mean,” said Gilbert Bidaud, touching his fore- 
head with a finger, “ I keep here for the present. It is 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


59 

sometimes dangerous to explain meanings too soon. 
Take heed. When I came to this colony — but a short 
time since — I was inwardly warned that I might meet with 
men from whom it would be necessary to protect myself. 
Therefore I purchased this ” — producing a revolver — 
“and this” — producing a knife — “only to be used in 
self-defence, against you, against any man.” 

There was nothing menacing in his tone. He spoke, 
indeed, rather playfully than otherwise, and handled the 
revolver and knife as though they were toys instead of 
dangerous weapons. A wild thought crossed Basil’s mind, 
and he acted upon it instantly. 

“You say you are Gilbert Bidaud, brother of this unfor- 
tunate gentleman, but I have only your word for it.” 

“Ah, ah,” said Gilbert Bidaud, with an air of great 
amusement, “ you have only my word for it. But what 
kind of authority do you hold here that you should 
demand answers to questions upon this or any other 
subject ? ” 

Basil could not answer this direct challenge ; he in- 
wardly recognised the weakness of his position : Anthony 
Bidaud dead, he was but a cipher on his estate. 

“ You are as a feather to a rock,” said Gilbert Bidaud 
with a gesture of contempt, “ and I am but amusing my- 
self with you. I stand quietly here for a reason I may 
presently explain. This house has lost a master.” He 
glanced at his dead brother. “This house has gained a 
master.” He touched his breast triumphantly. “ It is 
but a change, a law of nature. My brother and I have 
not met for twenty years. He had a good motive for 
avoiding me ; he fled from Switzerland with money of 
mine, and now, through death, he is compelled to make 
restitution. ” 

“It is false,” cried Basil, chivalrously defending the 
friend he had lost. “ If you are Gilbert Bidaud it was 
you who attempted to rob him of his inheritance,” 


6o 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“Ah, ah! Did my estimable brother open his heart 
entirely to you ? ” 

“Sufficiently to reveal your true character — even to the 
last words you spoke to him before he left Switzerland/' 

“Favor me with them. It may be excused if I do 
not faithfully recall them at this distance of time.” 

“‘One day,' you said to him, ‘I will be even with 
you. Remember my words — dead or alive, I will be even 
with you.' ” 

“I remember. My words were prophetic. Fate was 
on my side, justice was on my side. They whispered to 
me, ‘ Wait,’ I waited. And now — look there ! So, so, 
my ingenuous youngfriend ; you know the whole story.” 

“ It was related to me by your brother.” 

“ By this lump of clay ! It would be the act of a fool 
to deal tenderly by you; and I, as you may have already 
learned, am no fool. How came my brother by his 
death ? ” 

“ How came he by his death? ” stammered Basil, puz- 
zled by the question, and not seeing the drift of it. 

‘ ‘ Ay, how came he by his death ? I am not so ignorant 
as you suppose. I have made inquiries about you ; there 
are men on this estate who bear you no good-will. You 
are here, not as a guest, but an interloper. You and my 
brother were strangers a few short weeks ago, and you 
forced yourself upon him and lived here, a beggar, eating 
his food, drinking his wine, and paying for them neither in 
service nor money. That is a creditable part to be played 
by one who calls himself an English gentleman. Sum- 
moned hereby M. Anthony Bidaud — I have in my pocket 
the letter he wrote to our sister — I hasten on the wings of 
love, tarrying not on the road, but wearing myself near 
to death, in order that I may satisfy his longing desire to 
embrace me. I meet you by accident on the river’s bank, 
and I perceive that you regard yourself as master here. 
The river is yours, the land is yours, my brother is yours, 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . <5 r 

his daughter Annette is yours — ah, you wince at that. 
All this you proclaim in your lordly way, and patronise 
me — me, whose rightful place you would have usurped. 
Before meeting me you pass my sister, resting in her labor 
of love, and you offer her charity — you, a beggar, pass 
this insult upon a lady who, under my direction, will 
educate my dear brother’s little daughter, and teach her — 
principles. You leave me by the river ; I, guileless, un- 
suspicious, a child in innocence, calmly take my bath, 
and reflect with delight upon the joy of my brother when 
he takes me to his arms. Walking to this house, I meet 
a laborer, whose name is Rocke. He tells me something 
of you ; he directs me to my brother’s private room. I 
open the door ; I see you standing by my brother’s side. 
You are in a state of fear and agitation ; your face is white, 
your limbs tremble. I hear you ask the question, * Can 
this be death V To whom or to what do you address this 
inquiry ? To your conscience, for you believe yourself to 
be alone ; you are unconscious that I am present. ‘ Can 
this be death? I convince myself, and you. It is death. 
I am deprived of the opportunity of saying to my brother 
that I forgive him for the wrong he did me in the past. 
It is most cruel, and you have robbed me of the opportu- 
nity ; but, before I forget it, I will chance the efficacy of 
my forgiveness, though he be dead.” With a mock humil- 
ity shocking to witness, he extended his hands, and, 
looking upwards, said, “ Brother, I forgive you. I return 
to my argument. What passed between you and my 
brother before I entered this room r Again I ask, how 
came he by his death? If it is not a natural end, who is 
the murderer?” 

In hot indignation Basil started forward, but by a great 
effort of will restrained himself. He had been appalled 
by the careless, mocking tone in which Gilbert Bidaud 
had spoken, by his false assumption of a grief he did not 
feel, by the evident enjoyment he derived from the glaring 


6 2 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


insincerity of his professions. For no two things could 
be more distinctly at variance than Gilbert Bidauds words 
and the tone in which he uttered them. It exhibited a 
refinement of malice, and, what rendered it more revolt- 
ing, of malice in which the intellectual quality was con- 
spicuous. 

“It is well,” continued Gilbert Bidaud, “ that you ex- 
ercise self-control. I might call aloud for help ; I might, 
in less time than it takes me to speak it, create in this 
room the evidences of a struggle, in the course of which I 
might fire my revolver, produced for self-defence ; I might 
inform those who would break the door down — it is locked 
by you, remember — that you attempted to murder me, 

even, as you Ah, I perceive you understand. Yes, all 

this I might do, and you would be in the toils. Do not 
move until I have done with you, or you will be in deadly 
danger. In such parts of the world as this, exasperated 
men often proceed hastily to summary justice, and it 
might be executed upon you. I am teaching you lessons, 
as I shall teach my dear niece Annette, principles. You 
are young ; I, alas, am old. I have nothing to learn ; 
you have much. Tell me, you hanger-on in this house, 
you beggar of my brother’s hospitality what passed be- 
tween you and him before I entered this room ? ” 

“Nothing,” replied Basil, confounded by the possibili- 
ties of a ruthless malice with which Gilbert Bidaud had 
threatened him. “I have already informed you that 
when I entered the room he was dead.” 

“What brought you here?” 

“I came by appointment,” said Basil. He no longer 
doubted that the man before him was Anthony Bidaud’s 
brother, and he was surprised that he had not detected 
the resemblance upon his first meeting with Gilbert. 

“ What was the nature of the appointment? ” 

“ He wished me to read a letter he intended to write to 
his lawyer,” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


63 

“Ah, ah ! He intended to write to his lawyer. May 
I ask this lawyer's name ? ” 

“It is there upon an envelope . v 

“ His place of residence? ” 

“Sydney, I believe. ” 

“ A long way off. The letter was to have been written 
this morning?" 

“Yes. He at first intended to write it last night, but 
he put it off until to-day. The postponement was most 
unfortunate." 

“ To you ? ” 

“To me. I should have urged him to carry out his 
intention last night, as he designed." 

“Ah ! Apres dommage chacun est sage — except the 
dead. Why should you have urged him ? " 

“It would have been to my interests — and his, I fear." 

•“ Leave his out of the question ; he has done with the 
world. Yours is another matter. How could a simple 
letter to a lawyer have been in your interests? A letter is 
not a legal document." His preternatural sharpness as he 
made this remark was a revelation to an honest nature 
like Basil's. There seemed to be no limit to Gilbert 
Bidaud's cunning. 

“At least it would have explained matters, and cleared 
me from your suspicions." 

“ Words are easily spoken, and weigh no more than 
air. To what effect was to have been this letter ? " 

“ He desired to make his will." 

Gilbert Bidaud drew a deep breath of satisfaction. He 
had elicited something tangible, something which won- 
derfully strengthened his position. “Then there is no 
will, and the letter, which would have been valueless, 
was not written. Your expression of regret leads me to 
infer that the will was to have been in your favor." 

“To a certain extent." 

“ False. He intended to repair the injustice from which 


64 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


I have so long suffered ; his property would have been 
divided between me and the little Annette. It is too late 
for him to do that now ; but I stand as natural guardian 
to my niece. I am truly the master here ; the law will 
declare me so. Console yourself. You shall depart from 
this house a free man. You are not in danger. Bear 
witness to my magnanimity; my brother died a natural 
death. I will testify it, to save you.” 

“ That will not do,” said Basil. “From what cause he 
died shall be proved by proper evidence.” 

“ It shall. I, a doctor, will supply it.” 

“I reject your proof; you are an interested party. It 
shall be independent evidence that shall establish the 
cause of death . v 

“So be it, young Daniel,” said Gilbert Bidaud, briskly. 
“Meanwhile, I release you from suspicion ; I, the gentle- 
man you have insulted, believe you to be innocent. I go 
to seek my niece, to introduce myself to her, and to break 
to her the sad, the melancholy news. But before I go I 
give you notice of your discharge. For one week from 
this day you shall enjoy my hospitality, but for no longer, 
for not an hour longer. Accept it, beggar, or leave at 
once.” 

He paused at the door, opened it, removed the key to 
the outside, and, with a contemptuous motion, ordered 
Basil to quit the room. The young man had no choice 
but to obey. Whatever might be Gilbert Bidaud ; s charac- 
ter, he stood in the house as legal representative of the 
dead. Annette was but a child, and her uncle was her 
lawful guardian. Grieved, sorrow-stricken, and humili- 
ated, Basil left the room, and heard Gilbert Bidaud turn 
the key. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


6 5 


CHAPTER VIII. 

What should he do now? How should he act? To 
accept Gilbert Bidaud's hospitality was impossible. The 
old man was his bitter enemy, and would show him no 
consideration. Indeed, what consideration could he ex- 
pect ? There was no denying that he had no right to 
remain on the estate, but he felt he could not leave it -for- 
ever without seeing Annette once more, without speaking 
to her perhaps for the last time. Nor could he well take 
his final departure without making an attempt to clear 
himself from the foul suspicions which, in his absence, 
he felt convinced Gilbert Bidaud would set in circulation 
against him. He led a spotless life, and the thought that 
a stain should now be cast upon it was unbearable. But 
what means could he take to clear himself from the breath 
of slander ? He could think of no way at present, and he 
walked into the open with a heavy weight of melancholy 
at his heart. 

He wandered into the woods and gathered some fruit ; 
he had a vigorous appetite, and it would be folly to starve 
himself. But the food of which he partook had never 
tasted less sweet than on this sad morning. His hunger 
appeased, he returned to the vicinity of the house. 

He heard a cry of distress in the distance, and saw men 
and women hurrying to the spot from which the cry pro- 
ceeded. The voice was Annette’s. 

Presently he saw the men and women coming towards 
the house. They were headed by Gilbert Bidaud and his 
sister, and one of the men — before the group came close 
to him he saw that it was Rocke — was carrying in his 
arms the insensible form „ of Annette. Impelled by love 

5 


66 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


and infinite compassion for the child, he started forward, 
but was haughtily waved off by Gilbert Bidaud. 

“That man,” said Gilbert to those in his rear, “has 
my permission to remain on this estate for one week. 
When that time has expired he will be a trespasser.” 

As he finished speaking Annette opened her eyes — they 
fell upon Basil. 

“ Basil, Basil ! ” she cried extending her arms to him. 

“ Annette ! ” 

Once more he attempted to go to her ; once more Gil- 
bert Bidaud waved him off, and stepped before him. 

“If he touches her, if he follows her, arrest him. I 
give you authority. ” 

Basil fell back. Annette's mournful eyes were fixed 
upon his face in dumb despair. 

“Hurry in — hurry in,” said Gilbert Bidaud in a harsh 
tone. 

They passed into the house, and Basil was left alone. 
It was a favorite trick of his to put his thoughts into un- 
spoken words ; he had encouraged the habit, finding it 
led to clearness, and generally, when he was in doubt, to 
some definite issue. In his disturbed mood he found this 
a suitable time for this mental indulgence. Something 
should be done, clearly ; but what? 

“Poor Annette!” he thought. “Poor child! What 
will now become of her? What will be her future? That 
brute — he is no less — who boasts so sardonically that he 
intends to teach her principles, will poison her mind against 
me. If I do not see her again she will grow to hate me. 
It is dreadful to think of. She has none but kind thoughts 
of me now ; and though in a short time we may be parted 
forever, and all chance of ever seeing her again will be 
lost, I should dearly like to feel that if she thinks of me in 
the future it will be with gentleness and affection. I have 
done nothing to forfeit her affection, except that I am 
unfortunate. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


67 

“My bright dreams are suddenly snapped. A few 
short hours have changed happiness to woe. Still — still I 
have committed no wrong. Of that I am sure; and it is a 
comfort — but poor Annette ! If I could assure her that I 
am not to blame, I could bear it. She would believe me, 
and I could go on my way with a less sorrowful heart. 

“ That brute will try his hardest to prevent my seeing 
her. 1 he blow that has fallen upon her may prostrate 
her. She may die — it is horrible, horrible ! If that should 
happen Gilbert Bidaud will come into possession of 
everything. Is that the end to which he will work ? He 
is capable of it, capable of any villainy. Can I do noth- 
ing to save her? 

“I am powerless. I have no claim upon her; I have 
no right to be here. But I will not go away without 
seeing, without speaking to her. If he takes her from 
this place, which is likely enough, I will follow them. 
She must not, she must not be left to the tender mercies 
of that jackal. 

“All very fine to talk, Basil. You will follow them? 
Why, man, you must live. It is a necessity. And to 
live, you must work. How much money have you in 
your pocket to commence the fight of existence with ? — 
to say nothing of the grand things you are going to do 
for sweet Annette. 

“She has got hold of my heart-strings. I shall never, 
never forget her. Certain words spoken by my dear 
friend, Anthony Bidaud, last night, come to my mind. 
Let me recall them, exactly as he spoke them : 

“ ‘We are drawn to each other/ he said. And before 
that : ‘ By accident you enter into our lives. I use the 
term accident, but I believe it to be a providence.’ How 
if it should be so ? The shadow of death was hanging 
over him, and at such times some men have been gifted 
with prophetic insight. If it were so with Anthony 
Bidaud, this is not the end. The thought I have ex- 


68 


BASIL A HD ANNETTE. 


pressed, the very word ‘ insight ’ I have used, were his. 

‘ I have observed you closely/ he said, ‘ and am satisfied 
to deliver into your hands a sacred charge — the charge of 
a young girl’s future. At such moments as these there 
comes to some men a subtle, unfathomable insight. It 
comes to me. I firmly believe that there is a link be- 
tween you and my child which, if you do not recognize 
it now, you will be bound to recognize in the future. It 
may be broken in the present, but the threads will be 
joined as surely as we stand here side by side.’ 

“With all my heart I hope so, but it is the wildest, the 
most unreasonable of hopes. 

“Can nothing, nothing be done? 

“ He said he had made no will ; but he may have left 
papers, expressing his wishes. How to get a sight of 
them ? If I had sufficient means to take me to Sydney I 
would hasten there, to Anthony Bidaud’s lawyer, and lay 
the case before him. But my purse is empty. I have, 
however, something about me of value. My gold watch 
and chain, given to me by my dear father. That is 
worth a certain sum, but it would not carry me to Syd- 
ney. It would carry me, however, to Gum Flat, where 
perhaps I can find a lawyer who will advise her. In the 
saddle I could reach there to-night, and be back to-mor- 
row. Where can I obtain a horse ? I dare not take one 
from the plantation. Gilbert Bidaud would accuse me 
of theft, and he would be within his right. Ah ! Old 
Corrie ! ” 

Here he stopped. His unspoken thoughts had led him 
to a definite issue. 

Gum Flat was the name of the nearest township, if 
township it could be called. In the Australian colonies 
they delight in singular names for places. Old Corrie 
was a man who, by permission of Anthony Bidaud, occu- 
pied a hut which he had built with his own hands on 
the plantation, some two miles from the spot upon which 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


69 

Basil at that moment stood. He was not employed on 
the estate, but did odd jobs in wood-splitting and the 
felling of trees for the master of the plantation. The 
man had “taken to ” Basil, as the saying is, and in his 
odd way had shown a liking for the young man, who 
always had a pleasant word for any agreeable person he 
chanced to fall across. 

Old Corrie was not an old man, his age being about 
forty, but he was dubbed Old Corrie because he was 
angular, because he was crooked, because he had a mouth 
all awry, because he chose to keep himself from his fel- 
lows. He owned a horse, and it occurred to Basil that he 
might lend it to him for the journey to Gum Flat, which 
■was distant some forty-five miles. To Old Corrie’s hut, 
Basil therefore, betook himself, stepping out with a will. 

In less than half an hour he reached the old fellow’s 
dwelling. Old Corrie was not at home, but Basil heard 
the sound of his axe in the woods. It was not very near, 
but men’s ears get trained to fine sounds in the bush. 
Guided by the thud of the axe Basil in a short time found 
himself face to face with the woodman. 

Old Corrie went on with his work, merely glancing up 
and giving Basil a friendly nod. From another living crea- 
ture Basil received a more boisterous greeting, a laugh- 
ing jackass which Old Corrie had tamed bursting into 
an outrageous fit of laughter without the least apparent 
cause. This bird, which is sometimes called the bush- 
man’s clock, was an uncouth-looking object, as big as a 
crow, of a rich chestnut-brown color with light blue 
wings ; its beak was long and pointed, and its mouth 
inordinately large. These characteristics, in alliance with 
a formidable crest, invested it with a ferocious air; but 
this particular specimen was exceedingly gentle, despite 
the extravagant sounds it emitted, which might have been 
excruciatingly prolonged had not its sharp eye caught 
sight of a carpet snake wriggling through the underwood, 


70 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


Down darted the laughing jackass, and commenced a 
battle with the snake, which terminated in the bird throw- 
ing the dead body of the reptile into the air, with a series 
of triumphant chuckles ; after which it sat silent on a 
branch, contemplating the dead snake with an air partly 
comical, partly profound, and waiting in grim patience for 
a movement on the part of its victim which would fur- 
nish an excuse for a renewal of hostilities. 

Basil had time to note all this, for Old Corrie did not 
speak, and the young man was debating how to com- 
mence. 

“Well, Master Basil,” said Old Corrie, presently, throw- 
ing down his axe and taking out his pipe, a common 
short clay which he would not have exchanged for thrice 
its weight in gold, “what brings you this way? Any 
message from Mr. Bidaud ? ” 

“No, Corrie,” replied Basil sadly, “you will receive 
no more messages from him.” 

“I was thinking myself,” said Corrie, glancing at Basil, 
and not immediately recognizing the gravity of the reply, 
“that there mightn't be many more.” 

“What made you think that?” asked Basil, in doubt 
whether the man knew of Anthony Bidaud's death. 

“I’m down with the fever, Master Basil.” 

“ I'm sorry to hear that, Corrie, ” said Basil in surprise, 
for Old Corrie was the picture of health and strength. 
“ Can I do anything for you ? ” 

“No, Master Basil,” said Old Corrie, with a smile and 
a kindly look at Basil. “The fever I’m down with ain't 
the kind of fever that's in your mind. It's the gold fever 
I'm down with.” 

“Oh,” said Basil, “I understand.” 

“ The wonder is that I've never been down with it be- 
fore. If I don’t strike a rich claim or find a big nugget 
or two, I can always come back to this.” 

“ Have you heard any news, then ? ” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE r 


- 7 * 


“ Well, two men camped out here last night, and we 
had a talk. I gave ’em some tea, and their tongues got 
loosened a bit. There’s a new gold-field discovered 
somewhere in the north, and they’re after it. A regular 
Tom Tiddler’s ground, Mr. Basil, only it’s all gold and 
no silver. Twenty ounces to the tub.” 

“ And you’re off? ” 

“When I’ve finished this job for Mr. Bidaud. ” 

“ How long will that take you ? 

“About three weeks.” 

“ Is it a contract job ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Signed on paper ? ” 

“No, we never had need of that. Mr. Bidaud’s word 
is as good as his bond ; so’s mine.” 

“I would not go on with it, Corrie, if I were you, till 
I made sure.” 

“Why?” 

“ Because the gentleman who made the contract with 
you by w r ord of mouth is dead.” 

“ Dead ! ” 

“ Died this morning suddenly, I grieve to say.” 

Old Corrie took his pipe from his mouth, and sent a 
look of reproach in the direction of the laughing jackass, 
from whose throat proceeded a faint gurgle of laughter. 
At this look the quaint bird — as odd a specimen of the 
feathered tribes as Old Corrie was of the human race — 
checked its mirth, and cocking its head knowingly on 
one side, inquired with its speaking eye what was the 
matter. 

“That’s bad news, Master Basil.” 

“The worst of news, Corrie.” 

“ Died suddenly ? ” 

“Quite suddenly. It is a great shock.” 

“What’s to become of the little lady?” asked Old 
Corrie, in a sympathizing tone. The inquiry was ad 
dressed as much to himself as to Basil. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


72 . 

“That is one of the things that are troubling me, Cor- 
rie. You are a favorite of hers.” 

“ I’ve seen her grow up, and remember her mother well. 
Tve cause. Once when I was down with the colonial 
fever — almost as bad as the gold fever, Master Basil — 
Mrs. Bidaud as good as nursed me through it, coming or 
sending every day for two months and more, till I got 
strong. When I was well I went up to the house to thank 
her. The little lady was just toddling about, and made 
friends with me. I shall never forget Mrs. Bidaud ; I 
went to her funeral. You stopped at my hut before you 
came here, I expect.” 

“ Yes ; I thought you might be there.” 

“ Did you hear anything ? ” 

“ Only the sound of your axe in the woods. ” 

“ I mean inside the hut. There’s a magpie there that’s 
got the sense of a human being and a voice like a flute. 
I only got it a fortnight ago, and I’ve tamed it already, 
surprising. Back as white as snow, Master Basil, and 
breast and wings shining like black satin. A handsome 
bird, and quite young. It says ‘Little lady! Little 
lady ! ’ and ‘ Miss Annette !’ in a way that’ll astonish you. 
I’m doing it for the little lady herself, and I’m glad I be- 
gan it because Pm going away.” 

“It will please her greatly, Corrie, if she is allowed to 
accept it.” 

“Whats to prevent her? Poor little lady! First her 
mother, then her father. I thought there was trouble in 
your face when I saw it. Would you mind explaining, 
Master Basil, about this wood-splitting contract of mine ? 
Why shouldn’t I finish it till I made sure?” 

Then Basil told of the arrival of the dead man’s brother 
and sister, and was not delicate in expressing his opinion 
of Gilbert Bidaud. 

“ You’re not the sort of man,” said Old Corrie thought- 
fully, “to speak ill behind another’s back without good 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


73 

reason. Little lady’s uncle must be a bad lot. A man 
and a woman, you say, foreign looking. They must be 
the pair that passed my hut early this morning when I 
was getting up. They didn’t stop ; she wanted to, I 
think, but he wouldn’t let her. 4 Curse you ! ’ I heard 
him say. ‘What are you lagging for? Put life into 
your miserable limbs; we haven’t got far to go.’ It 
seemed to me as if he laid hands on her to drag her along. 
I came out of the hut, and saw them ahead, the woman 
walking as if she was dead beat, and the man lugging 
her on. They never turned to look behind, and I watched 
till they were out of sight. I’m sorry for the little lady. 
I’ll go up to the house to-day, and judge for myself. 

“You may hear something against me, Corrie. Don’t 
believe it.” 

“I won’t, without reason. I make up my mind slow, 
Master Basil. Perhaps you’ve got something more to tell 
me. It won’t be thrown away.” 

Wishing to stand well with old Corrie, Basil became 
more communicative, and put the woodman in possession 
of the particulars of what had passed between himself and 
Anthony Bidaud on the previous evening, and also of his 
interviews with Anthony’s brother. 

“It looks black,” said Old Corrie. “It’s a pity you 
didn’t leave him to the alligator. And now, Master Basil, 
you’ve something else in your mind. Out with it.” 

“I came to ask you to do me a great service.” 

“Give it mouth.” 

“It may be that poor Annette’s father has left some 
papers with respect to her future which the law might de- 
clare valid. If that is so, and her uncle finds them, he 
will destroy them ; it may be to his interest to do so, and 
in that case he will allow no considerations of right and 
wrong to stand in his way. The presence of a lawyer 
may prevent this. Then there is the slanderous talk he is 
sure to set going against me ; I want to clear myself of it. 


74 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


The precise cause of Anthony Bidaud’s death should be 
ascertained and declared by a competent and disinterested 
person, and I thought of going to Gum Flat and enlisting 
the services of a lawyer and a doctor, whom I would 
bring back with me.” 

“It would be a proper thing to do,” said Corrie. 

“But I am in a difficulty. I could walk the distance, 
but I could not get there till to-morrow. Coming and 
going, four days at least would be wasted, and in that 
time Annette’s uncle could work his own ends without 
interruption. Now, if I had a horse I could get there this 
evening, and back to-morrow.” 

“You want me to lend you my mare? ” 

“ That is what I came to ask you. ” 

“You can have her ; she’s a willing creature, and ’ll go 
till she drops.” 

“It is kind of you, Corrie.” 

“Not at all. I do it a little bit for your sake, but a 
good deal more for the sake of the little lady.” 

“You run a risk, Corrie. My story may not be true; 
I may never come back.” 

“I’ll take security, then.” 

“ I have no money. The only thing I possess of value 
is this watch and chain.” 

“I won’t take that ; you may need it to pay the lawyer 
and the doctor with. Besides that isn’t the security I 
mean. I’ll take your word. ” 

“You’re a real good fellow, Corrie. Some day I may 
be able to repay you.” 

“ If I had any idea of looking out for that day I shouldn’t 
do what I’m doing. Look here, Master Basil. I know a 
gentleman when I see one ; and you’re a gentleman. I 
believe every word you’ve told me. This fellow that’s 
turned up, the little lady’s uncle, is a scoundrel, or he 
wouldn’t have spoken the words I heard to a woman 
wearly dead with fatigue — his own sister, too. Come 
along ; let’s saddle the mare.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


75 

Before that was done, however, OldCorrie insisted that 
Basil should eat a hearty meal and see the magpie he was 
taming for Annette. Then Basil mounted the willing 
mare, and with a grip of the hand and a hearty “Good- 
luck, mate,” from Old Corrie, the young man started for 
Gum Flat. 


CHAPTER IX. 

It was three months since Basil had passed through the 
conglomeration of canvas tents and stores which rejoiced 
in a title which certainly could not be called euphonious, 
and then, although those were its most prosperous days, 
it had struck him as being a wretched hole. Rumors of 
rich finds of gold had originally attracted a population 
to Gum Flat, township, but the glowing anticipations of 
the gold-diggers who flocked to the false El Dorado were 
doomed to disappointment. It was not a gold-diggers’ 
but a storekeepers’ rush, and the result was a foregone 
conclusion ; after a time the miners who had flocked 
thither began to desert the place. Not, however, before 
they gave it a fair trial. They marked out claims, they 
prospected the hills and gullies, they turned the waters of 
a large creek, they sank shafts in many a likely-looking 
spot, they followed spurs of stones on the ranges in the 
hope that they would lead them to a rich quartz reef, but 
their labors were unrewarded. A couple of specks to the 
dish and the faintest traces of gold in the quartz were not 
sufficient to pay for powder and tobacco, and the men 
gradually began to leave the uninviting locality. A few 
remained, but not to dig for gold ; these were chiefly loafers, 
and lived on each other, playing billiards during the day 
on the one billiard table that had been left behind, and 
cards during the night, for fabulous and visionary sums 
of money which, really lost and won, would have trans- 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


76 

formed beggars into millionaires and millionaires into 
beggars. The poorer they grew the larger the stakes they 
played for, and their delusions created for their delectation 
the most delicious paroxysms of infinite joy and over- 
whelming despair. These they enjoyed to the full, 
reckoning up their losses and gains with wild eyes and 
radiant countenances. One beggarly loafer, who for the 
last five years had not had five pounds to bless himself with, 
went to the creek one dark night after a visionary loss 
of a hundred thousand pounds or so, and insisted upon 
drowning himself. It required a vast amount of insistence 
on his part, for the creek just then was not more than 
three feet deep. Anyway, he was found dead the next 
morning, with a letter in his pocket to the effect that he 
was financially ruined and could not survive the disgrace ; 
whereupon his principal creditor, who, in the matter of 
finances, was no better off than the drowned man, per- 
ambulated High Street in a state of fury, fiercely de- 
nouncing his debtor who had not the courage to live and 
pay his debts of honor. 

Some means of subsistence, however inadequate, Gum 
Flat must have had ; these were found in the persons of 
half-a-dozen drivers of bullock drays, who every two weeks 
brought their earnings there and spent them royally. 
This process lasted on each occasion exactly three days, 
during which time the population, numbering in all not 
more than thirty souls, were in clover. When the bullock 
drivers returned to their avocations the loafers declared 
that the colonies were going to the dogs, and resumed the 
routine of their dismal days, gambling, drinking, quar- 
relling, until the six solvent men returned again to gladden 
their hearts. 

Even this miserable state of affairs came to an end 
after a time, and reached a more deplorable stage. The 
bullock drivers discovered more agreeable quarters, and 
in their turn deserted the township. Driven by sheer 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


77 


necessity the loafers, one by one, followed their example, 
and slunk from the place, until only four remained. 
Such was the condition of Gum Flat as Basil rode towards 
the township on a day eventful enough in the story of his life 
but scarcely less eventful than the night which followed it 
was destined to be. Had he been aware of this he would 
have thought twice before he made up his mind to proceed 
thither in search of lawyer and doctor ; but such is the 
irony of circumstances that, had he not set forth on his 
present journey, the entire course of his future life would 
have drifted into channels which would, almost to a 
certainty, have separated him from Annette forever. 
Accident or fate, which you will ; but the course of many 
lives is thus determined. 

He rode all day through the tracks he remembered, 
and concerning which he had been refreshed by Old Corrie, 
who was as ignorant as himself of the deplorable change 
that had taken place. The road for a few miles lay along 
great plains of rich black soil, dotted here and there with 
masses of blue and barley grass, among which might be 
found the native leek and wild cucumber ; then followed 
a tract of country somewhat lightly timbered but heavily 
grassed, where he came across anasty bit of “devil devil’ 
land, fortunately of not great extent, for he had to ride 
with a loose rein and leave it to his horse to pick the 
safest way. On his left were large lagoons on which a 
wondrous variety of wild fowl abounded ; on his right 
was a belt of impenetrable scrub ; but the track was well 
defined, and after riding twenty miles he entered a thickly 
wooded forest, for the shade of which he was grateful, 
the sun now being high in the heavens. Emerging from 
this forest he halted near a vast sheet of water, in which 
tall reeds grew, and where he found the wild banana. Off 
this fruit and some cold meat and bread which Old Corrie 
had forced upon him, he made a sufficient meal, and. then 
resumed his journey. In the afternoon the road lay 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


7$ 

through a more even country, and he reckoned upon 
reaching Gum Flat before sundown. But he reckoned 
without his host, for the distance was longer than he cal : 
culated, and at sunset he was still, according to the in- 
formation given to him by the driver of a bullock dray, 
eight or ten miles from the township. This man was 
the only human being he had met in his lonely ride. 
Many a time in the course of the day had he fallen into 
contemplation of the pregnant events of the last twenty 
four hours, thinking, “ This time yesterday I was walking 
with Annette in the woods, gathering wildflowers for her 
mothers grave. She slipped, and I caught her in my 
arms. ” And again: “This time yesterday Anthony 
Bidaud, Annette, and I, were sitting in the verandah 
watching the sunset ; and a moment afterwards white stars 
were glittering in the clouds of faded gold. How peaceful, 
how happy we were ! And now ? ” He shuddered as he 
thought of the dead form of Anthony Bidaud lying in his 
room and of the sense of desolation which must have 
fallen upon Annette. He strove to direct his thoughts 
into more cheerful grooves, but he was not successful. 

The gorgeous colors in the heavens melted away ; the 
sun dipped beneath the horizon ; it was night. Fortu- 
ately it was light, and he could see the road he was riding 
over. The willing animal he bestrode plodded on, more 
slowly now, and Basil did not attempt to quicken the pace. 
It was ten o’clock when he reached the township of Gum 
Flat. 

He recognized it by the outlines of the tents. He had 
expected to see lights in the dwellings, arguing that Gum 
Flat must have increased in importance since his last visit, 
but all was dark on the outskirts. He was surprised at 
the darkness, but grateful that his journey was over. He 
rode along the High Street, and with still deeper surprise 
observed that on some of the stores the canvas lay loose, 
and that the calico over the frame was torn and rent. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


79 


“ Can I have mistaken the road?" he thought. In the 
middle of the High Street he paused. The door of a store 
was thrown suddenly open, and three men, whose move- 
ments had been inspired by the sound of the horses hoofs, 
emerged therefrom, and stood looking up at Basil. Each 
had cards in his hand, denoting that when they were dis- 
turbed they had been gambling. The picture at that 
moment was Rembrandtesque. The street was in dark- 
ness ; not a light was visible. One of the men standing 
at the door held above his head a lighted candle stuck in 
a whisky bottle, and this dim light enabled the three gam- 
blers and Basil not exactly to see each other but to define 
outlines. Through the open door Basil saw a table upon 
which was another candle, and sitting at which was an- 
other man, also with cards in his hand. This man, lean- 
ing forward, was striving to pierce the gloom in which his 
companions and Basil stood. He rose and joined them, 
and going close to Basil, laid his hand upon the horse’s 
neck. Thus, Basil and he confronted each other. And 
at that moment was commenced the weaving of a strand 
which was to connect the lives of these two men, for 
weal or woe. 


CHAPTER X. 

Each man of this small group represented in his own 
person the epitome of a drama more or less stirring and 
eventful. With three of these we have little to do, and no 
good purpose will be served by recounting their antece- 
dents. The history of the fourth — he who stood with his 
hand on the neck of old Corrie’s horse, looking up at Basil 
— will presently be unfolded. 

He was a full-bearded man, the light brown hair so 
effectually concealing his features that only his cheek- 
bones and forehead were visible. To a physiologist, 


8o 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


therefore, the index was imperfect. He was a young 
man, of about the same age as Basil, and his name was 
Newman Chaytor. This was his true name ; it will be 
as well to say as much, for there was much that was false 
about him. 

The man who held the candle was known as Jim the 
Hatter ; Jim belonged properly to him by right, the Hatter 
was a patronymic he had earned by working on various 
goldfields alone, without a mate. Why they call men on 
the gold-diggings thus inclined, Hatters, is one of the 
mysteries, but it is a fact. Of the other two it will be 
sufficient to refer to them as Nonentity Number One and 
Nonentity Number Two. Jim the Hatter was a large- 
boned, loose-limbed man, of great strength. Upon his 
first arrival in Australia his time, to put it gently, was 
not his own; it belonged to his country. He was now 
free, but his morals had not been improved by the lesson 
his country had administered to him. 

It will thus be seen that Basil had unfortunately fallen 
among thieves. 

For a few moments the man on horseback and the men 
on foot preserved silence, and opportunity was afforded 
for a striking picture. Jim the Hatter was the first to speak. 

“ Well, mate ? ” he said. 

‘ ‘ Is this the township of Gum Flat ? ” inquired Basil. 

“It is. If you’re looking for it, you’re dead on the 
gutter.” 

“ I thought I must have mistaken my way,” said Basil. 
“ What has come over the place? ” 

Newman Chaytor answered him. “It has gone,” he 
said, “ to the dogs.” 

“Like yourselves,” thought Basil, gazing at the men, 
but deeming it prudent not to express himself aloud upon 
a point so personal. He spoke, however. “It is the 
place I was making for. I suppose I can put up here for 
the night? ” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


8 


“ There’s nothing to prevent you. Gum Flat township 
just now is Liberty Hall.” 

“Stop a bit, stop a bit,” said Nonentity Number One, 
considering it necessary to his dignity that he should take 
part in the conference. “Is the gentleman prepared to 
pay for accommodation ? ” 

“ That’s a proper question,” said Nonentity Number 
Two, thus asserting himself. 

“ Of course he is,” said Jim the Hatter, answering for 
Basil, who, with an empty purse, was saved from awk- 
wardness. 

A diversion occurred here. Newman Chaytor snatched 
the candle from Jim the Hatter, in order that he might 
obtain a clearer view of Basil. 

“ Manners, mate,” said Jim the Hatter. 

“ Manners be hanged ! ” retorted Newman Chaytor, 
holding the candle high. “ They’re out of stock.” 

This was evident. To smooth matters Basil volun- 
teered an explanation. “ I have come here upon busi- 
ness, but I am afraid I have lost my time.” 

“Perhaps not,” said Jim the Hatter. “We’re all busi- 
ness men here ; ready at a moment’s notice to turn a 
honest penny. That’s true, ain’t it, mate?” 

He addressed Newman Chaytor, but that worthy did 
not reply. Having obtained a clearer view of Basil’s face 
he seemed to be suddenly struck dumb, and stared at it 
as though he were fascinated. 

“Still,” continued Jim the Hatter, “it’s as well to be 
particular in these times. I’m very choice in the com- 
pany I keep and I don’t as a rule do business with 
strangers, unless,” he added, with a grin which found its 
reflection on the lips of Nonentities Numbers One and 
Two, “they pay their footing first.” 

“If you wish to know my name,” said Basil, “it is 
Basil Whittingham.’’ 

“ What ! ” cried Newman Chaytor, finding his tongue ; 

6 


82 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


but the exclamation of undoubted astonishment appeared 
to be forced from him instead of being voluntarily 
uttered. 

“Basil Whittingham,” repeated Basil. “ Being here, I 
must stop for the night. Is there a stable near? ” 

“There's one at the back,” said Newman Chaytor, 
with sudden alacrity, “or rather there was one. I'll 
show you.” 

“ Thank you,” said Basil, and followed his guide to the 
rear of the shanty. 

The three men looked after them with no good will. 

“ He's a swell,” said Nonentity Number One. 

“ He’s got a watch and chain,” said Nonentity Number 
Two. 

“And a horse,” said Jim the Hatter. 

Then they re-entered the store, and settled down to their 
game of cards. 

“ Stop here a moment,” said Newman Chaytor to Basil. 
“I'll get a light.” 

Returning with a candle stuck in a bottle, the fashion- 
able form of candlestick in Gum Flat, he waved it about, 
sometimes so close to Basil that it shone upon his 
features. 

“ You stare at me,” said Basil, “as if you knew me. ” 

“Never saw you before to my knowledge.” (A false- 
hood, but that is a detail.) “You’re not a colonial.” 

“I am an Englishman, like yourself, I judge.” 

“Yes, I am English.” 

“You have the advantage of me — you know my name. 
May I ask yours ? ” 

“Certainly,” said Chaytor, but he spoke, nevertheless, 
with a certain hesitation, as if something of importance 
hung upon it. “My name is Newman, with Chaytor 
tacked to it.” Then, anxiously, “ Have you heard it 
before ? ” 

Never. 1 his is a tumble-down place. It is a courtesy 
to call it a stable.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 

“It will serve, in place of a better/’ 

“ Oh, yes, it is better than nothing/' 

“Everything is tumble-down in Gum Flat. I am an 
Englishman, town-bred. And you?” 

“ My people hail from Devonshire.” 

“I am not dreaming, then,” said Chaytor, speaking for 
the second time involuntarily. 

“Dreaming ! ” exclaimed Basil. , 

“ I was thinking of another matter,” said Chaytor, with 
readiness. “Speaking my thoughts aloud is one of my 
bad tricks.” 

“One of mine too,” said Basil, smiling. 

“That is not the only thing in which we’re alike.” 

“ No ? ” 

“We are about the same age, about the same build, 
and we are both gentlemen. Your horse is blown ; you 
have ridden a long distance. ” 

“From Bidaud’s plantation.” 

“I have heard of it. And you come upon business? 
I may be able to assist you. ” 

“ I shall be glad of assistance,” said Basil, recognizing 
in his companion an obvious superiority to the men they 
had left. “When I passed through Gum Flat a few 
months ago I thought it a township likely to thrive, and 
now I find it pretty well deserted. ” 

“It has gone to the dogs, as I told you. There’s 
nothing but grass for your horse to nibble at. So you’re 
from Devonshire. Do your people live there still ? ” 

He mixed up the subjects of his remarks in the oddest 
manner, and cast furtive glances at Basil with a certain 
mental preoccupation which would have forced itself upon 
Basil’s attention had he not been so occupied with his 
own special cares. 

“There are none left,” said Basil. “ I am the only one 
remaining.” 

“The only one?” 


84 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“Weil, I have an old uncle, but we are not exactly on 
amicable terms/’ 

“ You are better off than I am. I have no family left.” 
He sighed pathetically. “ I fancy I can lay my hands on 
a bundle of sweet hay.” 

“ I should feel grateful.” 

“ Don’t leave the stable till I come back ; I shan’t be 
gone long.” t 

He was absent ten minutes or so, and though he went 
straight about his errand, he was thinking of something 
very different. “It is the most wonderful thing in the 
world,” ran his thoughts — “that I should meet him here 
again, in this hole, not changed in the slightest ! It can’t 
be accident ; it was predestined, and I should be a self- 
confessed idiot if I did not take advantage of it. But how 
is it to be worked? His uncle is still alive. What did he 
say? ‘We are not exactly on amicable terms.’ That is 
because he is proud. I am not. I should be a better 
nephew to the old fellow than this upstart. He is very 
old, in his second childhood, most likely. This is the 
turning-point of my life, and I will not throw away the 
chance. Just as I was at the bottom of the ladder, too. 
I’ll climb to the top — I will, I will ! ” He raised his hand 
to the skies, as though registering an oath. 

“There,” he said, throwing down a bundle of hay 
which the horse immediately began to munch, “with a 
bucket of water your mare will do very well. I’ll fetch 
it.” 

“You are very kind,” said Basil, warming to Newman 
Chaytor. 

“Not at all. Noblesse oblige.” This was said with a 
grand air. 

Basil held out his hand, and Chaytor pressed it 
effusively. Then, at Chaytor’s request, Basil spoke of 
the errand upon which he was engaged, and, being plied 
skilfully with questions, put his companion in possession 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


85 

of a great deal he wished to know, not only in relation to 
the affairs of Bidaud’s plantation, but his own personal 
history as well. 

“It is curious,” said Chaytor, “That we two should 
have met at such a time and in such a place. Who knows 
what may come of it? I am, strange to say, a bit of a 
doctor and a bit of a lawyer, and if you will accept my 
services I shall be glad to accompany you back to 
Bidaud’s plantation.” 

“But why? ’’asked Basil, touched by the apparently 
unselfish offer. “ I have no claim upon you.” 

“Except the claim that one gentleman has upon an- 
other — which should count for something. It always has 
with me.” 

“Upon my word I don’t know how to thank you.” 

“Don’t try. It is myself I am rendering a service to, 
not you. This deserted hole, and the association of those 
men ” — -jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direc- 
tion of the tent — “sicken me. Does there not come to 
some men a crisis in their lives which compels them to 
turn over a new leaf, as the saying is, to cut themselves 
away entirely from the past and commence life anew?” 

“Yes,” said Basil, struck by the application of this 
figure of speech to his own circumstances, “it has come 
to me.” 

“And to me. I intended to leave Gum Flat to-morrow, 
and I did not know in which direction. I felt like Robin- 
son Crusoe on the desert island, without a friend, without 
a kindred soul to talk to, to associate with. If you will 
allow me to look upon you as a friend you will put me 
under a deep obligation. Should the brother of the poor 
gentleman who died so suddenly this morning — the father 
of that sweet young lady of whom you speak so tenderly 
— succeed in having things all his own way, you will be 
cast adrift, as I am. It is best to look things straight in 
the face, is it not? — even unpleasant things.” 


86 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“It is the most sensible course,’* said Basil. 

“Exactly. The most sensible course, and the most 
manly. Why should not you and I throw in our fortunes 
together? I am sure we should suit each other.” 

“I can but thank you,” said Basil. “It is worth 
thinking over.” 

“All right; there is plenty of tirm. before us. Let us 
go into the store now. A word of warning first : The 
men inside are not to be trusted. I was thrown in their 
company against my will, and I felt that the association 
was degrading to me. We can’t pick and choose in this 
part of the world.” 

“Indeed we cannot. I will not forget your warning. 
To speak honestly, I am not in the mood or condition for 
society. I have had a hard day, and am dead beat.” 

“You would like to turn in,” said Chaytor. “I can 
give you a shake-down, and for supper what remains of 
a tin of biscuits and a tin of sardines. There, don’t say 
a word. The luck’s on my side. Come along.” 

The Nonentities and Jim the Hatter were in the midst 
of a wrangle when they entered, and scarcely noticed 
them. This left Chaytor free to attend to Basil. He 
placed before him the biscuits and sardines, and produced 
a flask of brandy. Basil was grateful for the refreshment ; 
he was thoroughly exhausted, and it renewed his strength 
and revived his drooping spirits. Then he filled his pipe, 
and conversed in low tones with his new friend, while 
the gamblers continued their game. 

“If I stop up much longer,” said Basil, when he had 
had his smoke, “ I shall drop off my seat.” 

Chaytor rose and preceded him to the further end of 
the store. The building, if such a designation may be 
allowed to an erection composed of only wood and 
canvas, had been the most pretentious and imposing in 
the palmy days of the township, and although now it 
was all tattered and torn, like the man in the nursery 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


37 


rhyme, it could still boast of half a dozen private com- 
partments in which sleepers could find repose and 
solitude. The walls, of course, were of calico, and for 
complete privacy darkness was necessary. 

Chaytor and the three gamblers who were bending over 
their cards in the dim light of the larger space without, 
each occupied one of these sleeping compartments. Two 
remained vacant, and into one of these Chaytor led Basil. 

There was a stretcher in the room, a piece of strong 
canvas nailed upon four pieces of batten driven into the 
ground. The canvas was bare ; there were no bed- 
clothes. 

“I have two blankets/' said Chaytor, “I can spare 
you one." 

Basil was too tired to protest. Dressed as he was he 
threw himself upon the stretcher, drew the blanket' over 
him, and bidding his hospitable friend good-night, and 
thanking him again, was fast asleep almost as the words 
passed his lips. 

Newman Chaytor stood for a moment or two gazing 
upon the sleeping man. “I can’t be dreaming," he 
thought; “he is here before me, and I am wide awake. 

I drink to the future." He had no glass, but he went 
through the pantomime of drinking out of one. 

Taking the lighted candle with him he joined his mates, 
and left Basil sleeping calmly in darkness. They were 
no longer playing cards, but with heads close together 
were debating in whispers. Upon Chay tor’s entrance 
they shifted their positions and ceased talking. 

“ Have you put your gentleman to bed? "asked Jim 
the Hatter, in a sneering tone in which a sinister ring 
might have been detected. 

“Much obliged to you for the inquiry," replied Chay- 
tor, prepared to fence ; “he is sound asleep.” 

“ Interesting child ! A case of love at first sight, mates.” 

“Nonentities Numbers One and Two nodded, with 


88 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


dark looks at Chaytor, who smiled genially at them and 
commenced to smoke. 

“Or,” said Jim the Hatter, “perhaps an old acquaint- 
ance. ” 

“Take your choice,” observed Chaytor, who, in finesse 
and coolness, was a match for the three. 

“Doesn’t it strike you, Newman, that it’s taking a 
liberty with us to feed and bolster him up, and stand 
drinks as well, without asking whether we was agree- 
able?” 

“Not at all. The sardines were mine, the biscuits were 
mine, the grog was mine. If you want to quarrel, say 
so.” 

“I’m for peace and quietness,” said Jim the Hatter, 
threateningly. “I was only expressing my opinion.” 

“And I mine. Look here, mates, I don’t want to be- 
have shabbily, so I’ll tell you what is in my mind.” 

“Ah, do, ’’ said Jim the Hatter, with a secret sign to 
the Nonentities which Chaytor did not see; “then we 
shall know where we are.” 

“ I’ll tell you where we are, literally, mates. We’re in 
a heaven-forsaken township, running fast to bone, which 
leads to skeleton. Now, I’m not prepared for that positive 
eventuality just yet. This world is good enough for me 
at present, and I mean to do my best to enjoy it.” 

“Can’t you enjoy it in our company?” asked Jim the 
Hatter. 

“I think not,” said Chaytor, with cool insolence. 
“The best of friends must part.” 

“ Oh, that’s your little game, is it?” 

“ That is my little game. I am growing gray. If I 
don’t look out I shall be white before I’m thirty. Really 
I think it must be the effect of the company I have kept.” 

“ We are not good enough for you, I suppose ? ” 

“ If you ask for my deliberate opinion, T answer most 
distinctly not. No, mates, not by a long way good 
enough.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 89 

“Don’t be stuck up, mate. Better men than you have 
had to eat humble pie.” 

“Any sort of pie,” said Chaytor, philosophically, “is 
better than no pie at all. Take my advice. Bid good- 
bye to Gum Flat, gigantic fraud that it is, and go in 
search of big nuggets. That is what I am going to do.” 

“With your gentleman friend ? ” 

“With my gentleman friend. We may as well part 
civilly, but if you choose the other thing I am agreeable.” 
The three men rose with the intention of retiring. They 
did not respond to his invitation to part friends. “ Well, 
good-night, and good-luck to you.” They nodded surlily 
and entered their sleeping apartments, after exchanging a 
few words quietly between themselves. 

Newman Chaytor helped himself to brandy from his 
flask, then filled his pipe and began to smoke. 

That he had something serious to think of was evident, 
and that he was puzzled what use to make of it was quite 
as clear. An enterprise was before him, and he was dis- 
posed to pledge himself to it ; but he was in the dark as 
to whither it would lead him. In the dark, also, how it 
could be so conducted as to result in profit to himself. He 
was in desperately low water, and had lost confidence in 
himself. His ship was drifting anchorless on a waste of 
waters ; suddenly an anchor had presented itself which, 
while it would afford him peace and safety for a time, 
might show him a way to a golden harbor. An ugly 
smile wreathed his lips, the sinister aspect of which was 
hidden by his abundant hair ; but it was there, and re- 
mained for many musing moments. He took from his 
pocket a common memorandum book, and on a few 
blank pages he wrote the names, Newman Chaytor and 
Basil Whittingham, several times and in several differ- 
ent styles of handwriting. Then he wrote upon one, 
in the form of a check, “Pay to Newman Chaytor, Esq.,^ 
the sum of forty thousand pounds. Basil Whittingham. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


90 

He contemplated this valueless dratt tor a long time 
before destroying it at the candle's light, as he destroyed 
the other sheets of paper upon which he had written the 
signatures. 

“All the pleasures of existence,” he mused, “all the 
light, everything in the world worth having, are on the 
other side of the water. Was I born to grind out my 
days in a prison like this? No, and I will not. Here is 
the chance of escape ” — he turned his head to the room 
in which Basil was sleeping — “with possibilities which 
may give me all I desire. It would be. flying in the face 
of Providence to neglect it. The first law of nature is 
Self. I should be a born fool not to obey the first law of 
nature.” 

In these reflections he passed an hour, when he de- 
termined to go to bed. 

All was still. He stepped on tiptoe to each of the four 
compartments occupied by Basil, Jim the Hatter, and the 
Nonentities, and listened at the doors to assure himself 
that he was the only wakeful person in the store. Deem- 
ing himself safe he entered his own room, and taking a 
small round mirror in a zinc frame from the top of a 
packing case which served as wash-stand and dressing 
table, gazed at his face with strange intentness. Putting 
the hand-mirror down he cast wary looks around. Yes, 
he was alone ; there were no witnesses. Then he did 
a. curious thing. He took off his beard and whiskers. 

In the room on his right lay Basil asleep ; in the room 
on his left was Jim the Hatter, whom he supposed to be. 
But in this he reckoned without his host, as many another 
sharp rogue has done in his time. Jim the Hatter, despite 
his deep breathing, which had deceived Newman Chaytor, 
was wide awake. The moment Chaytor entered his 
room Jim the Hatter had slipped noiselessly from his 
stretcher, and his face was now glued to the wall of 
calico through which the light of Chaytor’s candle was 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


91 

shining. There was a small slit in the calico, which 
enabled Jim the Hatter to see what was passing in 
Chaytor’s room. Chaytor’s back, however, was towards 
the wall through which he was peeping. The watcher 
was puzzled ; he could not exactly discover what it was 
that Chaytor had done. 

Upon Chaytor’s face, now beardless and whiskerless, 
there was a natural growth of hair in the shape of a 
moustache. This moustache was the precise color of 
that which Basil grew and cherished. It was not so long, 
but a few weeks’ growth would make the resemblance 
perfect, if such was Chaytor’s wish. In other respects 
the resemblance between him and Basil was remarkable. 
Height, figure, complexion — even the color of the eyes — 
all tallied. 

In his anxiety to discover exactly what was going on 
Jim the Hatter made a slight movement, which was 
heard by Chaytor. He turned suddenly, and the astonished 
watcher beheld the counterpart of Basil. 

“ By Jove ! ” he said inly ; “twins ! ” 

Then, warned by Chaytor’s attitude that he was in 
danger of himself being discovered, he slipped between 
his blankets as noiselessly as he had slipped out of them. 
Waiting only to resume his disguise of beard and whiskers, 
Chaytor, candle in hand, went quietly but swiftly into 
the adjoining room and looked down upon the recumbent 
form of Jim the Hatter. Undoubtedly asleep, and sleep- 
ing like a top. Chaytor passed the candle across the 
man’s face, who never so much as winked. Assured that 
there was no cause for alarm, Chaytor stepped back to 
his own recess, put out the light, and went to bed. 


92 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


CHAPTER XI. 

Leaving this schemer to his ill-earned repose, we strip 
the veil from his past and lay it bare. 

Nature plays tricks, but seldom played a stranger than 
that of casting Newman Chaytor physically in the same 
mould as Basil. Born in different counties, with no tie 
of kinship between their families, their likeness to . each 
other was so marvellous that any man seeing them for 
the first time side by side, without some such disguise as 
Chaytor wore on Gum Flat, and the second time apart, 
would have been puzzled to know which was which. 
But not less strange than this physical likeness was the 
contrast between their moral natures. One was the soul 
of guilelessness and honor, the other the soul of cun- 
ning and baseness. One walked the straight paths of 
life, the other chose the crooked. 

Chaytor was born in London, and his parents occupied 
a respectable position. They gave him a good education, 
and did all they could to furnish him worthily for the 
battle of life. The affection they displayed was ill- 
requited. In his mother’s eyes he was perfection, but 
his father’s mind was often disturbed when he thought of 
the lad’s future. Perhaps in his own nature there was a 
moral twist which caused him to doubt ; perhaps his own 
youth was distinguished by the vices he detected in his 
son. However that may be, he took no blame to himself, 
preferring rather to skim the surface than to seek dis- 
comfort in psychological depths. 

The parents discussed their son’s future. 

“ We will make a doctor of him,” said the father. 

“ He will be a great physician/’ said the mother. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


93 

At this time Chaytor was eighteen years of age. At 
twenty it was decided that he was in the wrong groove ; 
at least, that was the statement of the doctor who had 
undertaken his professional education. It was not an 
entirely ingenuous statement ; the master was eager to 
get rid of his pupil, whose sharp practices distressed him. 

“ What would you like to be ? ” asked his father. 

“ A lawyer,” replied Chaytor. 

“ He will be Lord Chancellor,” said his mother. 

J Thereupon Newman Chaytor was articled to a firm of 
lawyers in Bedford Row, London, W. C., an old and 
respectable firm, Messrs. Rivington, Sons, and Rivington, 
who kept its exceedingly lucrative business in the hands 
of its own family. It happened, fatefully, that this firm 
of lawyers transacted the affairs of Bartholomew Whit- 
tingham, Basil’s uncle, with whom our readers have 
already made acquaintance. 

In the course of two or three years Chaytor’s character 
was fully developed. He was still the idol of his mother, 
whose heart was plated with so thick a shield of un- 
reasoning love that nothing to her son’s disparagement 
could make an impression upon it. Only there were 
doors in this shield which she opened at the least sign 
from the reprobate, sheltering him there and cooing over 
him as none but such hearts can. Her husband had the 
sincerest affection for her, and here was another safe- 
guard for Chaytor. 

The surroundings of life in a great and gay city are 
dangerous and tempting even to the innocent. How 
much more dangerous and tempting are they to those 
who by teaching or inclination are ripe for vice? It is 
not our intention to follow Chaytor through these devious 
paths ; we shall simply touch lightly upon those circum- 
stances of his career which are pertinent to our story. If 
for a brief space we are compelled to treat of some of the 
darker shadows of human nature, it must be set down to 


BAS/L AND ANNETTE. 


94 

the undoubted fact that life is not made up entirely of 
sweetness and light. 

Chaytor s father, looking through his bank book, dis- 
covered that he had a balance to his credit less by a 
hundred pounds than he knew was correct. He examined 
his returned checks, and found one with his signature 
for the exact amount, a signature written by another 
hand than his. He informed his wife, pending his deci- 
sion as to what steps to take to bring the guilt home. 
His wife informed her son. 

“Ah,” said he, “I have my suspicions.” And he 
mentioned the name of a clerk in his father's employ. 

This ball being set rolling, the elder Chaytor began to 
watch the suspected man, setting traps for him, across 
which the innocent man stepped in safety. Mr. Chaytor 
was puzzled ; he had, by his wife’s advice, kept the affair 
entirely secret, who in her turn had been prompted by her 
son to this course, and warned not to drag his name into it. 
The father, therefore, was not aware that the accusation 
against the clerk proceeded from his son. 

Chaytor had a design in view ; he wished to gain time 
to avoid possible unpleasant consequences. 

Some three weeks afterwards, when Mr. Chaytor had 
resolved to take the forged check to the bank with the 
intention of enlisting its services in the discovery of the 
criminal, he went to his desk to obtain the document. It 
was gone, and other papers with it. He was confounded ; 
without the check he could do nothing. 

“Have I a thief in my house,” he asked of himself, 
“as well as a forger at my elbow.” 

The man he had suspected was in the habit of coming 
to his private house once a week for clerking purposes. 
Without considering what he was laying himself open to, 
he accused his clerk of robbing him, and the result was 
that the man left his service and brought an action for 
slander against him, which he was compelled to com- 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. g~ 

promise by an apology and the payment of a sum of 
money. 

“ It is father’s own fault," said Chaytor to his mother; 
‘ ‘ had he waited and watched, he would have brought the 
guilt home to the fellow. But don’t say anything more 
to him about it ; let the matter rest. ” 

It did rest, but Mr. Chaytor did not forget it. 

Being in pursuit of pleasure Chaytor found himself in 
continual need of money, and he raised and procured it 
in many discreditable ways, but still he managed to keep 
his secret. Then came another crime. Some valuable 
jewels belonging to his mother were stolen. By whom? 

“ By one of the female servants, of course, ” said Chay- 
tor. 

He was not only without conscience, he was without 
heart. 

Mr. Chaytor proposed to call in a detective. Mrs. 
Chaytor, acting upon the secret advice of her son, would 
not hear of it. The father had, therefore, two forces work- 
ing against him, his wife, whom he could answer, because 
she was in the light, and his son, with whom he could 
not cope, because he was in the dark. 

“It would be a dreadful scandal,” said young Chaytor 
to his mother. “If nothing is discovered — and thieves 
are very cunning, you know — we shall be in worse trou- 
ble than father got into with the clerk who forged his name 
to the check. We should be the laughing-stock of every- 
one who knows us, and should hardly be able to raise our 
heads.” 

His word was law to her ; he could twist her round his 
little finger, he often laughingly said to himself; and as 
she, in her turn, dominated her husband, the deceits he 
practised were not too difficult for him to safely compass. 
Every domestic in the house was discharged, and a new 
set engaged. When they sent for characters no answer 
was returned. Thus early in life young Chaytor was 


9 6 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 

fruitful in mischief, but he cared not what occurred to 
others so long as he rode in safety. 

One day an old gentleman paid a visit to Messrs. Riv- 
ington, Sons, and Rivington. This was Mr. Bartholomew 
Whittingham, Basil’s uncle. He had come upon the busi- 
ness of his will, the particulars of which he had written 
down upon paper. He was not in the office longer than 
ten minutes, and he left at half-past one o'clock, the time 
at which Chaytor was in the habit of going to lunch. 
Following the old gentlemen Chaytor saw him step into 
a cab, in which a young gentleman had been waiting. 
The young gentleman was Basil, and Chaytor was startled 
at the resemblance of this man to himself. Relinquishing 
his lunch, Chaytor jumped into a cab, and bade the driver 
follow Basil and his uncle. They stopped at Morley's 
Hotel, Charing Cross, and Chaytor had another opportu- 
nity of verifying the likeness between himself and Basil. 
It interested and excited him. He had not the least idea 
what he could gain by it, but the fact took possession of 
his mind, and he could not dislodge it. He ascertained 
the names of Basil and his uncle by looking over the hotel 
book, and when he returned to the office in Bedford Row 
the task was allotted to him of preparing the rough draft 
of the will. Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham was very 
rich, and every shilling he possessed was devised to Basil, 
without restrictions of any kind. 

“The old fellow must be worth forty thousand pounds,” 
mused Chaytor, and he rolled out the sum again and again. 
“For-ty thou-sand pounds! For-ty thou-sand pounds! 
For-ty thou-sand pounds ! And every shilling is left to 
Mr. Basil Whittingham, my double. Yes, my Double ! 
My own mother would mistake him for me, and his dod- 
dering old uncle would mistake me for him. What wouldn’t 
I give to change places with him ! For-ty thou-sand- 
pounds ! For-ty thou-sand pounds ! It’s maddening to 
think of. He has a moustache ; I haven’t. But I can 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


97 

grow one exactly like. His hair is the color of mine. I’ll 
keep my eye on him.” 

It was an egregiously wicked idea, for by the wildest 
. stretch of his imagination he could not see how this start- 
ling likeness could be worked to his advantage. Never- 
theless he was fascinated by it, and he set himself the 
task of seeing as much of Basil as possible. During the 
week that Basil was living at Morley’s Hotel, Chaytor in 
his spare hours shadowed him, without being detected. 
Basil never once set eyes on him, and as the young gen- 
tleman never entered the office of Messrs. Rivington, Sons, 
and Rivington, no one there had opportunity to note the 
resemblance between the men. 

Chaytor for a week was in his element ; he ascertained 
from the hall porter in the hotel the places of amusement 
which Basil visited of an evening, and he followed him to 
them ; he waited outside the hotel to catch glimpses of 
him ; he studied every feature, every expression, every 
movement attentively, until he declared to himself that he 
knew him by heart. He began to let his moustache grow, 
and he practised little tricks of manners which he had 
observed. He was like a man possessed. 

“He is a gentleman,” he said. “ So am I. I am as 
good-looking as he is any day of the week. Why shouldn’t 
I be, being his Double ? ” 

He pondered over it, he dreamt of it, he worked him- 
self almost into a fever concerning it. Distorted possi- 
bilities presented themselves, and monstrous views. The 
phantom image of Basil entered into his life, directed his 
thoughts, .colored his future. He walked along the streets 
with this spectral Double by his side ; he leant over the 
river’s bridges and saw it reflected in the water ; he felt 
its presence when he woke up in the dark night. One 
night during this feverish week, after being in the theatre 
which Basil visited, after sitting in the shadow of the pit 
and watching him for hours in a private box, after follow- 

7 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


9 8 * 

ing him to Morley’s Hotel and lingering so long in Tra- 
falgar Square that he drew the attention of a policeman to 
his movements, he walked slowly homeward, twisting 
this and that possibility with an infatuation dangerous to 
his reason, until he came quite Suddenly upon a hpuse on 
tire. So engrossed was he that he had not noticed the 
hurrying people or their cries, and it was only when the 
blazing flames were before him that he was conscious of 
what was actually taking place. And there on the burn- 
ing roof as he looked up he beheld the phantom Basil on 
fire. With glaring eyes he saw it with the flames devour- 
ing it, dwindling in proportions until its luminous outlines 
faded into nothingness, until it was gone out of the living 
world for ever. A deep sigh of satisfaction escaped him. 

“Now he is gone/’ he thought. “I will take his place. 
His uncle is an old man ; I can easily deceive him ; and 
perhaps even he will die before morning. ” 

In the midst of this ecstatic delirium a phantom hand 
was laid upon his shoulder, a phantom face, with a mock- 
ing smile upon it, confronted him. He struck at it with 
a muttered curse. It came to rob him of forty thousand 
pounds. 

Had this mental condition lasted long he must have 
gone mad. The reason for this would have been that he 
had nothing to grapple with, nothing to fight, nothing but 
a shadow, which he had magnified into a mortal enemy 
who had done him a wrong which could only be atoned for 
by death. It was fortunate for him, although he deserved 
no good fortune, that Basil’s residence at Morley’s lasted 
but a week, and that he and his double did not meet again in 
the Old World ; for although Basil passed much of his time 
in his father’s house in London he lived at a long distance 
from Chaytor’s usual haunts, and the young men’s lives 
did not cross. Gradually Chaytor’s reason reasserted 
itself, and he became sane. Grimly, desperately sane, 
with still the leading idea haunting him, it is true, but no 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


99 

longer attended by monstrous conceptions of what might 
occur in a day, in an hour, in a moment, and he on the 
spot ready to take advantage of it. 

Shortly after Basil's departure he asked his mother if she 
ever had twins. 

“What on earth do you mean, my dear ? ” she asked, 
laughing at him. 

“It is plain enough,” he answered incautiously. “I 
dream sometimes of a brother the exact counterpart of 
myself. ” 

“You work too hard,” said his mother, pityingly. 
“You must take a holiday, my darling.” 

“ Who’s to pay for it? ” he asked, gloomily. 

“ I am,” she said fondly. “I have saved fifty pounds 
for you.” 

“ Give it to me,” he said eagerly, and with the money 
he went to Paris for a fortnight, and squandered it on 
himself and his pleasures. 

The foolish mother was continully doing this kind of 
thing, saving up money, wheedling her husband out of 
it upon false pretexts, stinting herself and making sacrifices 
for the worthless, ungrateful idol of her loving heart. So 
time passed, and Chaytor was still in the office of Riving- 
ton, Sons, and Rivington, picking up no sound knowledge 
of the law, but extracting from it for future use all the 
sharp and cunning subtleties of which some vile men 
make bad use. To the firm came a letter from Mr. Bar- 
tholomew Whittingham, with the tenor of which Chaytor 
made himself familiar. He was a spy in the office, and 
never scrupled at opening letters and reading them on 
the sly to master their contents. In the letter which Basils 
uncle wrote occurred these words : 

“Send me in a registered packet, by first post, my will, 
the will I made in favor of my nephew, Mr. Basil Whit- 
tingham. He has acted like a fool, and I am going to 
destroy it and disinherit him. At some future time I will 


IOO 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


give you instructions to draw up another, making a differ- 
ent disposition of my property. I am not a young man, 
but I shall live a good many years yet, and there is plenty 
of time before me. Meanwhile bear witness by this letter 
that I have disinherited my nephew Basil Whittingham.” 

Of course they followed his instructions, and the will 
was forwarded to him. 

“He has stolen forty thousand pounds from me,” 
thought Chaytor. 

Within a week thereafter he overheard a conversation 
between two of the principals. He was never above 
listening at doors and creeping up back staircases. The 
lawyers were speaking of Bartholomew Whittingham 
and the will. 

“Will he destroy it? ” asked one. 

“ I think not,” replied the other. “It is my opinion he 
will keep it by him, half intending to destroy it, half to 
preserve it, and that it will be found intact and unaltered 
when he dies.” 

“ I do not agree with you. He will destroy it one day 
in a rage, and make another the next.” 

“ In favor of whom ? ” 

“Of his nephew. He has in his heart an absorbing 
love for the young gentleman, and he is a good fellow at 
bottom. Mr. Basil Whittingham will come into the 
whole of the property.” 

The conversation was continued on these lines, and the 
partners ultimately agreed that after all Basil would be 
the heir. “There is a chance yet,” thought Chaytor, for 
although the dangerous period of ecstasy was passed 
there still lingered in his mind a hope of fortunate 
possibilities. 

He continued his evil courses, gambled, drank, and led 
a free life, getting deeper and deeper into debt. His 
mother assisted him out of many a scrape, and never for 
one single moment wavered in her faith in him, in her 


BASIL AND ANNETTE- 


IOl 


love for him. It was a sweet trait in her character, but 
love without wisdom is frequently productive of more 
harm than good. Chaytor’s position grew so desperate 
that detection and its attendant disgraceful penalty be- 
came imminent. He had made himself a proficient and 
skilful imitator of handwriting, and more than once had 
he forged his father’s name to checks and bills. The 
father was aware of this, but out of tenderness for his 
wife had done nothing more than upbraid his son for the 
infamy. Many a stormy scene had passed between them, 
which both carefully concealed from the knowledge of 
the fond woman, whose heart would have been broken 
had she known the truth. On every one of these occa- 
sions Chaytor had humbled himself and promised atone- 
ment, with tears and sighs and mock repentance which 
saddened but did not convince the father. 

“For your mother’s sake,” invariably he said. 

“Yes, yes,” murmured the hypocrite, “for my dear 
mother’s sake — my mother, so good, so loving, so tender- 
hearted ! ” 

“Let this be the last time,” said the father sternly. 

“It shall be, it shall be ! ” murmured the son. 

It was a formula. The father may sometimes have 
deceived himself into belief; the son, never. Even 
while he was humbling himself he would be casting 
about for the next throw. 

This continued for some considerable time, but at 
length came the crash. Chaytor and his parents were 
seated at breakfast at nine o’clock. The father had the 
morning letters in his pocket ; he had read them and put 
them by. He cast but one glance at his son, and Chaytor 
turned pale and winced. He saw that the storm was 
about to burst. As usual, nothing was said before Mrs. 
Chaytor. The meal was over, she kissed her son, and 
left the room to attend to her domestic affairs. 

“I must be off,” said Chaytor. “Mustn’t be late this 
morning. A lot to attend to at the office,” 


102 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


“ You need not hurry,” said the father, 
thing to say to you.” 

“ Won’t it keep till the evening? ” 

“ No. It must be said here and now.” 
the door and locked it. “ We will spare 
possible; she will know soon enough.” 

“ Oh, all right,” said Chaytor sullenly. 
The father took out his letters, and 


I have some- 


He stepped to 
her as long as 

“ Fire away.” 
selecting one, 

handed it to his son, who read it, shivered, and re- 
turned it. 

“ What have you to say to it ? ” asked the father. 

“ Nothing. It is only for three hundred pounds.” 

“ A bill, due to-day, which I did not sign.” 

“ It was done for all our sakes, to save the honor of 
the family name. I was in a hole, and there was no 
other way of getting out of it.” 

“The bill must be taken up before twelve o’clock.” 
“Will it be?” 


“ It will, for your mother’s sake.” 

“Then there is nothing more to be said. I am very 
sorry, but it could not be helped. I promise that it shall 
never occur again. I’ll take my oath of it if you like.” 

“ I take neither your word nor your oath. You are a 
scoundrel.” 

“Here, draw it mild. I am your son.” 

“Unhappily. If your mother were not living you 
should be shown into the dock for the forgery.” 

“ But she is alive. I shall not appear in the dock, and 
you may as well let me go. Look here, father, what’s 
the use of crying over spilt milk ? ” 

“Not much; and as I look upon you as hopeless, I 
would go on paying for it while your mother lived. If 
she were taken from me I should leave you to the punish- 
ment you deserve, and risk my name being dragged 
through the mire.” 

“I hope,” said Chaytor, with vile sanctimoniousness. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


103 

“that my dear mother will live till she is a hundred.” 

“There is, I must remind you, another side to the 
shield. I said as long as I can afford it.” 

“Well, you can afford it.” 

“I cannot, said Mr. Chaytor, with a sour smile. My 
career snaps to-day, after paying this forged bill with 
money that properly belongs to my creditors. Newman 
Chaytor, you have come to the end of your tether.” 

“You are saying this to frighten me,” said Chaytor, 
affecting an indifference he did not feel. “ Why, you are 
rolling in money.” 

“ You are mistaken. Speculations into which I have 
entered have failed disastrously. If you had not robbed 
me to the tune of thousands of pounds — the sum total of 
your villainies amounts to that — I might have weathered 
the storm, but as I am situated it is impossible. It is 
almost a triumph to me to stand here before you a 
ruined man, knowing you can no longer rob me.” 

“Still I do not believe you,” said Chaytor. 

“ Wait and see; you will not have to wait long.” 

The tone in which he uttered this carried conviction 
with it. 

“Do you know what you have done? ” cried Chaytor 
furiously. “You have ruined me!” 

“ What ! ” responded Mr. Chaytor, with savage sarcasm. 
“ Is there any more of this kind of paper floating about ! ” 
Chaytor bit his lips, and his fingers twitched nervously, 
but he did not reply. “If there is, be advised, and pre 
pare for it. In the list of my liabilities, which is now 
being prepared, there will be no place for them. How 
should there be, when I am in ignorance of your pros- 
pective villainies. Do you see now to what you have 
brought me?” 

“Do you see to what you have brought me P” ex- 
claimed Chaytor, in despair. “Why did you not tell me 
of it months ago ? " 


104 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“Because I hoped by other speculations to set myself 
straight. But everything has gone wrong — everything. 
Understand, I cannot trouble myself about your affairs ; 

I have enough to do with my own. 1 have one satisfac- 
tion : your mother will not suffer.” 

“ How is that ? ” 

“The settlement I made upon her in the days of my 
prosperity is hers absolutely, and only she can deal with 
it. In the settlement of my business there shall be no 
sentimental folly; I will see to that. Her money shall 
not go to pay my debts.” 

“But it shall go,” thought Chaytor, with secret joy, 
“ to get me out of the scrape I am in. It belongs to me 
by right, /will see that neither you nor your creditors 
tamper with it.” He breathed more freely; he could 
still defy the world. 

“I have not told you quite all,” continued Mr. Chaytor, 
“Here is a letter from Messrs. Rivington, Sons, and 
Rivington, advising me that it will be better for all parties 
that you do not make your appearance in their office. 
Indeed, the place you occupied there is already filled up.” 

“Do they give any reason for it?” asked Chaytor, in- 
wardly not greatly astonished at his dismissal. 

“None ; nor shall I ask any questions of them or you. 
You now know how the land lies. Good-morning.” 

He unlocked the door, and left the house. This was 
just what Chaytor desired. His vicious mind was quick 
in expedients ; his mother was his shield and his anchor. 
Her settlement would serve for many a long day yet. 
To her he went, and related his troubles in his own way. 
She gave him, as usual, her fullest sympathy, and prom- 
ised all he asked. 

“Between ourselves, mother,” he said. 

“Yes, my darling, between ourselves.” 

“ Father must not know. He was always hard on me. 
He thinks he can manage everybody’s affairs, but he 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


105 

cannot manage his own. ” Then he disclosed to her his 
father’s difficulties. “If he had allowed me to manage,, 
for him it would not have happened. Trust everything 
to me, mother, and this day year I will treble your little 
fortune for you. Let me have a chance for once. When 
I have made all our fortunes you shall go to him and say, 
‘See what Newman has done for us.’” 

“It shall be exactly as you say, darling. You are the 
best, the handsomest, the cleverest son a foolish mother 
ever had.” 

Kisses and caresses sealed the bargain. 

Within twenty-four hours he knew that everything his 
father had told him was true. The family were ruined, 
and but for Mrs. Chaytor’s private fortune would have 
been utterly beggared. They moved into a smaller house 
and practised economy. Little by little Chaytor received 
and squandered every shilling his mother possessed, and 
before the year was out the sun rose upon a ship beating 
on the rocks. 

“ Are you satisfied ? ” asked his father, from whom 
Chaytor’s doings could no longer be concealed. 

“Satisfied ! ” cried Chaytor, trembling in every limb. 
“When your insane speculations have ruined us !” 

Then he fell into a chair and began to sob. He had the 
best of reasons for tribulation. With his mind’s eye he saw 
the prison doors open to receive him. It was not shame 
that made him suffer ; it was fear. 

Again, and for the last time, he went to his mother for 
help. 

“ What can I do, my boy ? ” quavered the poor woman. 
“ What can I do ? I haven’t a shilling in the world.” 

He implored her to go to his father. 

“ He can save me,” cried the terror-stricken wretch. 
“ He can, he can ! ” 

She obeyed him, and the father sent for his son. 

“ Tell me all,” he said. “ Conceal nothing, or, as there 
is a heaven above us, I leave you to your fate.” 


o6 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


The shameful story told, the father said, “ Things were 
looking up with me, but here is another knock-down blow, 
and from my own flesh and blood. I accept it, and will 
submit once more to be ruined by you. ” 

“ Bless you, father, bless you,” whined Chaytor, taking 
his father’s hand and attempting to fondle it. Mr. Chaytor 
plucked his hand away. 

There is, however, a condition attached to the 
promise. ” 

“ What condition ? ” faltered Chaytor. 

“ That you leave England and never return. Do you 
hear me ? Never. You will go to the other end of the 
world, where you will end your days.” 

“ To Australia ! ” 

“ To Australia. When you quit this country I wish 
never to hear from you ; I shall regard you as dead. You 
shall no longer trade upon your mother’s weak love for 
you. I will not argue with you. Accept or refuse.” 

“ I accept.” 

“Very well. Go from this house and never let me 
look upon your face again. ” 

“Can I notsee my mother,” whined Chaytor, “ to wish 
her good-bye ?” 

“ No. You want to hatch further troubles. You shall 
not do so. Quit my house.” 

With head bent low in mock humility Chaytor left the 
house. He had no sincere wish to see his mother ; he 
had got out of her all he could, and she was of no use to 
him in the future. The promise his father made was ful- 
filled ; the fresh forgeries he had perpetrated were bought 
up, but one still remained of which he had made no 
mention. This was a bill for a large amount which he 
had accepted in the name of Rivington, Sons and Riving- 
ton. It had still two months to run, and Chaytor determined 
to remain in England tillwit hin a week or two of its 
becoming due ; something might turn up which would 


BASIL AND ANNE 7 TB. 


I07 

enable him to meet it. He loved the excitements of 
English life ; Australia was banishment ; but perhaps, 
after all, if he were forced to go, it might be the making 
of him. He had read of rough men making fortunes in 
a week on the goldfields. Why should not he ? 

The last blow proved too much for Mr. Chaytor ; it 
broke him up utterly. He was seized with a serious 
illness which reduced him to imbecility. The home had 
to be sold, and he and his wife removed to lodgings, one 
small room at the top of a house in a poor neighborhood. 
There poverty fell upon them like a wolf. Five weeks 
afterwards Chaytor, slouching through the streets on a 
rainy night, saw his mother begging in the roadway. 
The poor soul stood mute, with a box of matches in her 
hand. Chaytor turned and fled. 

“ I am the unluckiest dog that ever was born,” he 
muttered. “Just as I was going to see if I could get any- 
thing out of her ! ” 

It was now imperative that he should leave England, 
and he managed to get a passage in a sailing vessel as 
assistant steward at a shilling a month. He obtained it 
by means of forged letters of recommendation, and he 
went out in a false name. This he would have retained 
had it not been that shortly after his arrival in Australia he 
met a man who had known him in London, and who 
addressed him by his proper name. It was not the only 
inconvenience to which an alias subjected him. There 
was only one address in the colonies through which he 
could obtain his letters, and that was the Post Office. 
Obviously, if he called himself John Smith he could not 
expect letters to be delivered to him in the name of 
Newman Chaytor. Now, he was eager for letters from the 
old country ; before he left it he had written to his mother 
to the effect that he was driven out of it by a hard-hearted 
father, and that if she had any good news to communicate 
to him he would be glad to hear from her. At the same 


io 8 BASIL AND ANNETTE . 

time he imposed upon her the obligation of not letting 
anyone know where he was. Therefore, when his London 
acquaintance addressed him by his proper name, saying, 
“ Hallo, Chaytor, old boy!” he said to himself, “Oh 
hang it ! I’ll stick to Newman Chaytor, and chance it. 
If mother writes to me I shall have to proclaim myself 
Chaytor ; an alias might get me into all sorts of trouble. ” 
Why did he write to his poor mother, for whom he had 
not the least affection and what did he mean by expecting 
her to have any good news to communicate to him ? The 
last time he saw her was she not begging in the streets ? 
Well, there was a clear reason ; he seldom did anything 
without one ; and be sure that the kernel of that reason 
was Self. His father, from the wreck of his fortune, had 
managed to preserve a number of shares in some companies 
which had failed, among them two mining companies 
which had come to grief. Now, it had happened before 
and might happen again, that companies which were 
valueless one day had leaped into favor the next, that 
shares which yesterday could have been purchased for a 
song, to-morrow would be worth thousands of pounds. 
Suppose that this happened to the companies, or to one of 
them, in which his pauper father held shares. He was 
his fathers only child, and his mother would see that he 
was not disinherited. Chaytor was a man who never 
threw away a chance, and he would not throw away this, 
remote as it was. Hence his determination to adhere at 
all hazards to his proper name. The perilous excitements 
of the last two or three years had driven Basil Whitting- 
ham out of his mind, but having more leisure and less to 
occupy his thoughts in the colonies, he thought of him 
now and then, and wondered whether the old uncle had 
relented and had taken his nephew again into his favor. 
“ Lucky young beggar,” he thought. “ I wish I stood 
in his shoes, and he in mine. I would soon work the 
old codger into a proper mood.” His colonial career was 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


109 


neither profitable nor creditable, and he had degenerated 
into what he was when he and Basil came face to face in 
Gum Flat, an unadulterated gambler and loafer. The 
strange encounter awoke within him forces which had long 
lain dormant. He recognized a possible chance which 
might be worked to his benefit, and he fastened to it like a 
limpet. When he said to Basil that he was in luck he really- 
meant it. 

A word as to his false beard and whiskers. 

In London he had had a behind-the-scenes acquaintance, 
and in a private theatrical performance in which he played 
a part he had worn these identical appendages as an 
adjunct to the character he represented. He had brought 
them out with him, thinking they might be serviceable 
one day. Before he came to Gum Flat he had got into a 
scrape on another township, and when he left it, had 
assumed the false hair as a kind of disguise. Making his 
appearance on Gum Flat thus disguised, he deemed it 
prudent to retain it, and when he came into association 
with Basil he thanked his stars that he had done so; other- 
wise he might have drawn upon himself from the man he 
called his double a closer attention than he desired. 


CHAPTER XII. 

In the middle of the night Basil awoke. He had had 
a tiring day, but when he had slept off the first effects 
of the fatigue he had undergone, the exciting events of 
the last two days became again the dominant power. 
He dreamt of all that had occurred from the interview 
between himself and Anthony Bidaud, in which he had 
accepted the guardianship of Annette, to the moment of 
his arrival on Gum Flat. Of Newman Chaytor he dreamt 


IIO 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


not at all ; this new acquaintance had produced no 
abiding impression upon him. 

He lay awake for some five minutes or so in that condition 
of quiescent wonder which often falls upon men when they 
are sleeping for the first time in a strange bed and in a 
place with which they are not familiar. Where was he ? 
What was the position of the bed ? Where was the door 
situated ; at the foot, or the head, or the side of the bed ? 
was there a window in the apartment, and if so, where 
was it ? Then came the mental question, what had 
aroused him ? 

It was so unusual for him to wake in the middle of the 
night that he dwelt upon thi's question. Something must 
have disturbed him. What ? 

Was it fancy that just at the moment of his awaking he 
had heard a movement in the room, that he had felt a 
hand upon him, that he had heard a man’s breathing ? It 
must have been, all was so quiet and still. Suddenly 
he sat straight up on the stretcher. He remembered 
that he was in the township of Gum Flat, sleeping in a 
strange apartment, and that men with whom he had not 
been favorably impressed must be lying near him. This 
did not apply to Newman Chaytor, who had been kind 
and attentive, and whom he now thought of with grat- 
itude. There was nothing to fear from him, but the other 
three had gazed at him furtively and with no friendly feel- 
ings. He had exchanged but a few words with these 
men, and those had been words of suspicion. When he 
entered the store, after attending to his horse, they had not 
addressed a word to him. It was Chaytor, and Chaytor 
alone, who had shown kindness and evinced a kindly feel- 
ing. And now he was certain that someone had been in 
the room while he slept, and had laid hands on him. For 
what purpose ? 

He slid from the stretcher, and, standing upright, 
stretched out his hands in the darkness. Where was the 
door? 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


Ill 


Outside the canvas building stood Chaytor’s three 
mates, wide awake, with their heads close together, as 
they had been inside on the return of Basil and Chaytor 
from the stable. They were conversing in whispers. 

“ Did he hear you ? ” 

“ No. If he had moved I would have knocked him on 
the head.” 

“ Have you got it ? ” 

“Yes, it is all right.” 

" Pass it round.” 

“No; I will keep it till it's sold; then we’ll divide 
equally. ” 

“What do you think it’s worth ! ” 

“Twenty pounds, I should say.” 

“ Little enough.” 

“Hush!” 

The sound of Basil moving about his room, groping for 
the door, had reached them. 

“If he comes out, Jim, you tackle him.” 

“ Leave him to me. Don’t waste any more time. Get 
the horse from the stable.” 

Basil, unable to find the door, stumbled against the 
calico partition which divided his room from that in 
which Chaytor slept. 

“ Who’s there ? ” cried Chaytor, jumping up. 

“Oh, it’s you,” said Basil, recognizing the voice. 

“ Have you got a light ? ” 

“Wait a moment.” 

But half dressed he presented himself to Basil, with a 
lighted candle in his hand. 

“ What’s up ? ” he asked. 

“I don’t know, ” replied Basil, “but I’m not easy in 
my mind. Perhaps it is only my fancy, but I have an 
idea that some one has been in my room. ” 

“ Let us see.” 

They proceeded to the three compartments which 


I 12 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


should, have been occupied by the three men. They 
were empty. 

“ It was not fancy,” said Basil. “What mischief are 
they up to? Come along; we will go and see.” 

Chaytor hesitated. He was not gifted with heroic 
qualities, and he knew that his three mates were des- 
perate characters. 

“ Did you have any money about you ? ” he asked. 

“None. Why, where's my watch?” It was gone. 
There was a hurried movement without ; he heard the 
sound of a horses feet. “They are stealing Corries 
horse,” he cried, “after robbing me of rily watch. Stand 
by me, will you ?” 

He rushed out, followed, but not too quickly, by Chay- 
tor. The moment he reached the open a pair of arms 
were thrown around him, and he was grappling with an 
enemy. In unfamiliar ground, enveloped in darkness, 
and attacked by an unseen enemy, he was at a disad- 
vantage, and it would have fared ill with him had he not 
been strong and stout-hearted. Jim the Hatter, who had 
undertaken to tackle him, soon discovered that the man 
they were robbing was not easily disposed of. Down 
they fell the pair of them, twisting and turning, each 
striving to obtain the advantage, Basil silent and resolved, 
Jim the Hatter giving tongue to many an execration In 
the midst of the struggle the ruffian heard his mates, the 
Nonentities, moving off with Basil’s horse. His experi- 
ences had taught him that “honor among thieves” was a 
fallacious proverb ; anyway, he had never practised it 
himself, and he trusted no men. With a powerful effort 
he threw Basil from him and ran after. his comrades. 
During the encounter Chaytor had kept at a safe distance, 
but now that there was a lull he came close to Basil. 

“They half throttled me,” he gasped, tearing open his 
shirt and blowing like a grampus. “Are you hurt? ” 

“ No,” said Basil. “ We may catch them yet.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


113 

And he began to run, but the ruffians had got the start 
of him, and knew the lay of the ground. Guided by his 
ear he stumbled on, across the plains, through a gully 
riddled with holes, and finally up a steep range, followed 
by Chaytor, panting and blowing. He had many a fall, 
and so had Chaytor (who thought it well to follow suit, 
and cried out from time to time, “O, O, O ! ”), and thus 
the flight and the pursuit continued, the sounds from the 
flying men and old Corrie’s horse growing fainter and 
fainter, until matters came to a sudden termination. 

Half-way up the range, which was veined with quartz, 
£i shaft had been sunk and abandoned. The miners who 
had done the work had followed a gold-bearing spur some 
fifty feet down, in the hope of coming upon a golden reef. 
But the spur grew thinner and thinner, the traces of gold 
disappeared, and they lost heart. Disappointed in their 
expectations, and out of patience with their profitless 
labor, they shouldered their windlass and started off to 
fresh pastures. Thus the mouth of the shaft was left open 
and unprotected, and into it Basil dropped, and felt him- 
self slipping down with perilous celerity. 

It was fortunate that the shaft was not exactly perpen- 
dicular. After following the spur down for twenty feet 
the miners had found that it took an eccentric turn which 
necessitated the running in of an adit. This passage was 
about two yards long, when the spur dipped again, and 
the shaft was continued sheer into the bowels of the earth. 
It was this adit which saved Basil’s life. When he had 
slipped down the twenty feet he felt bottom, and there he 
lay, bruised, but not dangerously hurt. 

He cried out for help at the top of his voice, and his 
cries were presently answered. 

“Below there ! ” cried Chaytor, lying flat on the ground 
above, with his ear at the mouth of the shaft. 

“Is that you, Mr. Chaytor?” cried Basil. 

Chaytor (aside) : “He remembers my name.” (Aloud) : 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“Yes, what’s left of me. Where are you?” (Which, to 
say the least of it, was an unnecessary question.) 

Basil : “ Down here.” 

Chaytor (blind to logical fact) : “Alive ?” 

Basil (perceiving nothing strange in the question, and 
therefore almost as blind) : “Yes, thank God ! ” 

Chaytor : “ Any bones broke ? ” 

Basil : “I think not, but I am bruised a bit.” 

Chaytor : “So am I.” 

Basil: “I am sorry to hear it. Have the scoundrels 
got away ? ” 

Chaytor : “Yes, they’re a mile off by this time.” 

Basil (groaning) : “Old Corrie’s mare! What will he 
think of me? ” 

Chaytor : “It can’t be helped.” 

Basil : “In which direction have they gone ? ” 

Chaytor: “ Haven’t the slightest idea. I warned you 
against them.” 

Basil: “You did. You’re a good fellow, but what 
could I do ? ” 

Chaytor : “ Neither of us could have prevented it.” 

Basil : “I am not so sure. I ought to have stopped up 
all night, and looked after what wasn’t my own.” 

Chaytor (attempting consolation) : “Why, you couldn’t 
keep your eyes open.” 

Basil (groaning again): “I ought to have kept my 
eyes open. I had no right to sleep after your warning. ” 

Chaytor : “I did what I could.” 

Basil: “You did; you’re a true friend.” (Chaytor 
smiled. ) “ How am I to get up from here ? ” 

Chaytor: “That’s the question. How far are you 
down ? ” 

Basil : “ Heaven knows. It seems a mile or so.” 

Chaytor : “ There’s no windlass.” 

Basil: “ Isn’t there.” 

Chaytor : “ And it’s pitch dark.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE, 


IT 5 

Basil: “It’s as black as night down here. Can’t you 
go for help ?’’ 

Chaytor : “I’ll tell you something. There isn’t a soul 
on the township but ourselves.” 

Basil: “Notone?” 

Chaytor : “Not one. We must wait till daylight ; then 
I’ll see what I can do.” 

Basil : “There’s no help for it ; it must be as you say. 
You’ll not desert me?” 

Chaytor (in an injured tone) : “Can you think me 
capable of so dastardly an act?” 

Basil : “Forgive me ; I hardly know what I’m saying. 
I deserve that you should, for giving utterance to a 
thought so base.” 

Chaytor : “It was natural, perhaps. Why should you 
trust me, a stranger, whom you have known for only a 
few hours ? ” 

Basil : “ I do trust you; it was an unnatural thought. 
You are a noble fellow — and a gentleman.” 

Chaytor : “I hope so. Can I do anything for you while 
you are waiting ? ” 

Basil : “I am devoured by thirst. Can you manage to 
get a drink of water to me? ” 

“Chaytor: “I can do that; but you must have 
patience. I shall *have to go back to the township to get 
a bottle and some string. Shall I go ? ” 

Basil : “Yes, yes. Be as quick as you can.” 

Chaytor: “I won’t be a moment, longer than I can 
help?” 

Then there was silence. Chaytor departed on his er- 
rand, and Basil was left to himself. His right arm was 
bruised and sore, but he contrived to feel in his pockets for 
matches. A box was there, but it was empty, and he 
remembered that he had struck the last one at the end of 
his long ride from Bidaud’s plantation, just before he arrived 
in Gum Flat. He knew, from feeling the opening of the 


1 16 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


adit, that it was likely he was not at the bottom of the 
shaft, and he was fearful of moving, lest he should fall 
into a pit. He thought of Newman Chaytor. “What a 
o-ood fellow he is ! I should be dead but for him. It is 

0 

truly noble of him to stick to me as he is doing. He has 
nothing to gain by it, and he is saving my life. Yes, I will 
accept his proposal to go mates with him, for I have no 
place now on Bidaud’s plantation. Poor Annette — poor 
child ! I hope she will be happy. I hope her uncle and 
aunt will be kind to her. I must - ee her again before I 
go for good, and then we shall never meet again, never, 
never ! I would give the best twenty years of my life — 
if I am fated to live — to be her brother, with authority to 
protect her and shield her from Gilbert Bidaud. He is a 
villain, a smooth-tongued villain, a thousand times worse 
than these scoundrels who have robbed me and brought 
me to this. What will old Corrie say when he hears I 
have lost his mare? Will he think I am lying — will he 
think I have sold his horse and pocketed the money ? If 
so, and it gets to Annette’s ears, how she will despise me ! 

1 must see her, I must, to clear myself. Gilbert Bidaud 
will do all he can to prevent it, and he may succeed ; but 
I will try, I will try. If I had a hundred pounds I would 
buy another horse for old Corrie, a better one than that I 
have lost, but I haven’t a shilling. A sorry plight. There 
is only one human being in the world I can call friend, 
and that is Mr. Chaytor, who has taken such a strange 
fancy for me. Yesterday there was old Corrie, there was 
Anthony Bidaud, there was Annette. One is dead, the 
others may cast me off. It is a cruel world. How long 
Mr. Chaytor is ! It seems an age. Shame on you, Basil, 
for reviling ! There is a goodness, there is sweetness, 
there is faithfulness in the world. Don’t whine, old man. 
All may yet be well, though for the life of me I can’t see 
how it is to be brought about.” 

Then he fainted, but only for a few seconds ; when he 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


117 

opened his eyes again he thought hours must have 
elapsed. 

In truth Chaytor was absent no longer than was neces- 
sary, but he was also mentally busy with the adventures of 
the last few hours. The man whose phantom shadow had 
haunted him in London was now at his mercy. Basil’s 
life was absolutely at his disposal. To leave him where 
he was in that desolate spot, at the bottom of a deserted 
shaft, would be to ensure for him a sure and certain death, 
and if he wished to make assurance doubly sure, all he 
had to do would be to roll a great stone upon him. But 
that would be a crime, and, hardened as he was, he shrank 
from committing it. Not from any impulse of mercy, but 
because he had nothing at present to gain from it. There 
was much to learn, much to do before he nerved himself 
to a desperate deed which, after all, might by some stroke 
of good fortune be unnecessary. And indeedit was only 
the accident which had befallen Basil that darkened his 
soul with cruel suggestion. The sleeping forces which 
lurk in the souls of such men as Newman Chaytor often 
leap into active life by some unfortuitous circumstance 
in which they have no direct hand. 

He was back at the shaft, leaning over it with a bottle 
of water not too tightly corked, to the neck of which was 
attached a long piece of cord. 

“ Are you there ? ” he called out. 

“ Heaven be thanked ! ” said Basil. “ What a time 
you have been.” 

“ I have not been away an hour.” 

“ Is that really so ? ” 

“ It is, but it must have seemed long to you.” 

“ Weeks seem to have passed.” 

“ I have a bottle of water which I will send down to 
you. ” 

“ God bless you ! ” 

“ When you get it, loosen the string from the neck of 


1 1 8 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


the bottle, and I will send down what remains of the flask 
of brandy. It will do you no harm.” 

“ I can never repay you for your goodness to me.” 

“ Yes, you can. Lookout.” 

“ The bottle of water was lowered, and afterwards the 
flask of brandy. Basil took a long draught of water, half 
emptying the bottle, and sipped sparingly of the brandy. 

“ You have given me life, Mr. Chaytor.” 

“ Psha ! I have done nothing worth making a fuss 
about. Oblige me by dropping the Mr.” 

“ I will. With all my heart and soul I thank you, 
Chaytor. ” 

“ You are heartily welcome, Basil. There is a light 
coming into the sky.” 

“ Sunrise ! How beautiful the world is ! ” 

“ Listen,” said Chaytor; “ I will tell you what I am 
going to do.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“I am listening,” said Basil. 

“There is no windlass, as I have told you,” said Chay- 
tor, “so I must devise something in its place to pull you 
up. The mischief is that I am alone, and have no one 
to help me. However, I must do the best I can. I am 
going to roll the trunk of a tree to the top of the shaft, 
then tie a rope firmly round it so that you can climb into 
the world again. It must be dreadful down there.” 

“ It is,” groaned Basil. 

“ I can imagine it,” said Chaytor, complacently; “but 
you mustn’t mind biding a bit. No man could do more 
than I am doing.” 

“ Indeed he could not.” 

“The tree is six or seven hundred yards off, and I dare 


BASIL AND ANNETTE, 


ll 9 

say I shall be an hour over the job. I can't help that, 
you know." 

“Of course you can’t. I can’t find words to express 
my gratitude for all the trouble you are taking. And for 
a stranger, too ! ’’ 

“I don’t look upon you as a stranger; I feel as if I 
had known you all my life. I suppose, though, it is real- 
ly but the commencement of a friendship which will last 
I hope till we are both old men.’’ 

“ I hope so, too." 

“A little while ago I was saying to myself, I will never 
trust another man as long as I live; I will never believe 
in another ; I will never again confide in man or woman. 

I have been deceived, Basil." 

“ I am truly sorry to hear it." 

“Yes, I have been deceived. Friend after friend have 
I trusted, have I helped, have I ruined myself for, to find 
them in the end false, selfish, and unreliable. I was 
filled with disgust and with shame for my species. ‘ I 
renounce you all,’ I cried in the bitterness of my soul. 
But now everything seems changed. Since you came 
my faith in human goodness and sincerity and truth is 
restored. I don’t know why, but it is so. I can rely 
upon your friendship, Basil ? " 

“You can. I will never forget your goodness ; never." 

“I am going now to roll the tree to the shaft. Be as 
patient as you can.’’ 

He did not go far. The slim trunk that he spoke of 
lay not six or seven hundred yards off, but quite close to 
the shaft, and he knew that Basil in his pursuit of the rob- 
bers could not have observed it. He was master of the 
situation ; Basil was at his mercy, and every word he had 
uttered was intended to bind the unsuspicious man more 
firmly to him. ‘ ‘ He is a soft-hearted fool, ’’ thought Chay- 
tor, “and I shall be able to bend him any way I please 
through the gratitude he feels for me. I think I spoke 


120 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


rather well. What is this ? ” He stooped and picked up 
a pocket-book which had slipped from Basils pocket as 
he ran after the thieves. 

Retreating still farther from the shaft, to make assur- 
ance doubly sure, Chaytor, with eager fingers and a 
greedy expectancy in his eyes, opened the book and ex- 
amined the contents Intrinsically they were of no value, 
but in their relation to the unformed design which was 
prompting Chaytor’s actions their value was inestimable. 
There were memoranda of dates, events, names and ad- 
dresses, and also some old letters. Any possible use of 
the latter did not occur to Chaytor, but his examination of 
the former was almost instantly suggestive. They were 
in Basil's handwriting, some being dated and signed 
“B. W.,” and would serve admirably as copies for any 
one who desired to imitate the writing. Clear up and 
down strokes, without twists or eccentric curves, straight 
forward as Basil himself. “ This is a find, ” thought Cha v- 
tor ; “Providence is certainly on my side. In a week I 
shall be able to write so exactly like Basil that he will be 
ready to swear my writing is his. There is information, 
too, in the book which may prove serviceable. I'll stick 
to him while there's a chance, and I’ll contrive so that he 
shall stick to me. I haven’t done badly up to now.” 

More than an hour did Chaytor employ in cunning cogi- 
tation, smoking the while in a state of comfortable hazi- 
ness as to the future. Imagination gilded the prospect 
and clothed it with alluring fancies ; and that the road^ 
which led to it were dark and devious did not deter him 
from revelling in the contemplation. Time was up. 
Panting and blowing he rolled the tree-trunk to the 
shaft. 

“ Below there ! ” he called out. 

“ Ah ! ” replied Basil ; “you are back again.” 

“I have had a terrible job,” said the hypocrite, “ and 
almost despaired of accomplishing it, but stout heart and 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


I 2 I 


willing hands put strength into a fellow, and the tree is 
here. Look out for yourself while 1 roll it across the 
shaft. The earth may be rotten, and some bits will roll 
down, perhaps, though I’ll do all I can to prevent it.” 

“Thank you, a thousand, thousand times. There’s a 
little tunnel here ; Til get into it while you’re at work 
above. ” 

With loud evidences of arduous toil Chaytor placed the 
trunk in position, and then made the rope secure around it. 

“Now,” said Chaytor, “all is ready, Basil, and I’m 
going to lower the rope. Have you got it? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Basil, in a faint tone. 

“You will have to pull yourself up by it. I will keep 
the rope as tight and steady as I can, and that is as much 
as I can do. Do you think you will be able to manage 
it ? ” 

“I must try, but I feel very weak. My strength is 
giving way.” 

“ Don’t let it, old fellow. Pluck up courage ; it’s only 
for a few minutes, and then you will be safe at the top. 
Now then, with a will ! ” 

It required a will on Basil’s part, he was so weak, and 
more than once he feared that it was all over with him ; 
but at length the difficult feat was accomplished, and, 
with daylight shining once more on him, he reached the 
top, and was pulled from the mouth of the shaft by Chay- 
tor’s strong arms. Then, his strength quite gone he sank 
lifeless to the ground. 

Chaytor, gazing upon the helpless form, reflected. He 
had Basil’s pocket-book packed safely away in an inner 
pocket of his waistcoat, one of those pockets which men 
who have anything to conceal, or who move in lawless 
places, have made in their garments. This book con- 
tained much that might be useful ; for instance, the cor- 
rect name and address of Basil’s uncle in England, a state- 
ment of the debts which Basil had paid to keep his dead 


122 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


father’s name clear from reproach, the address of the law- 
yers who had managed that transaction, the amount of the 
fortune that Basil’s mother bequeathed to him, and other 
such matters. Now, had Basil anything more upon his 
person which might be turned to account in the future? 
If so, this was a favorable opportunity for C'haytor to 
possess himself of it. There would be no difficulty in 
satisfactorily explaining the loss of any property which 
Basil had about him. In the confusion and excitement 
of the last few hours anything might have happened. 

Having decided the point Chaytor’s unscrupulous fin- 
gers became busy, and every article in Basil’s pockets 
passed through his hands. With the exception of a purse 
he replaced everything he had taken out. This purse 
contained a locket with a lock of hair in it ; at the back 
of the locket was an inscription in Basil’s writing, — “My 
dear Mother’s hair,” her Christian name, the date of her 
death, and her age. There was no money in the purse. 
Undoubtedly Basil, when he recovered his senses, would 
miss his purse, but if his pocket-book slipped out of his 
pocket while running, why not that? Chaytor was per- 
fectly easy in his mind as he deposited the purse by the 
side of the pocket-book inside his waistcoat. 

Meanwhile Basil lay motionless. “ I’ll carry him a 
little way,” thought Chaytor. “Anything might drop 
from his clothes while he is hanging over my shoulder. 
I’ll have as many arrows to my bow as I can manufac- 
ture. When he gets to his senses we will have a hunt for 
the purse and the pocket-book, and of course shall not 
find them.” With a grim smile he raised Basil to a sit- 
ting posture, and gradually lifted him on to his shoulder. 
Clasping him firmly round the body, Chaytor staggered 
on. 

Basil was no light weight, and Chaytor, while he was 
pursuing his dissipated life in London, had not been re- 
nowned for strength ; but his colonial career had hardened 


BASIL AND ANNETTE , 


123 

his muscles, and enabled him now to perform a task 
which in years gone by would have been impossible. A 
dozen times he stopped to rest and wipe his brows. The 
form he carried was helpless and inert, but Basil’s mind 
was stirred by the motion of being carried through the 
fresh air, and he began to babble. He thought he was 
upon old Corrie’s mare, and he urged the animal on, 
muttering in disjointed and unconnected words that he 
must reach the township of Gum Flat that night, and be 
back again next day. Then he went on to babble about 
Annette and her father, and to a less intelligent man than 
Chaytor — give him credit for that — his wandering talk 
might have been incoherent and meaningless. But Chay- 
tor’s intellect was refined and sharpened by the possibili- 
ties of a gilded future. He listened attentively to every 
word that fell from Basil’s fevered lips, and put meaning 
to them, sometimes false, sometimes true. 

“ My friend Basil is in a delirium/’ said he during the 
intervals of Basil’s muttering, “and I shall have to nurse 
him through a fever most likely. What with that proba- 
bility, and the weight of him, I am earning my wage. 
No man could dispute that. He raves like a man in love 
about this Annette. How old is she ? Is she pretty ? 
Does she love him ? Will she be rich ? Is that a vein I 
could work to profit ? I don’t intend to throw away the 
shadow of a chance. An age seems to have passed since 
last night. But what,” he cried suddenly, “if all my 
labor is being thrown away — what if I am following a 
will-o’-the-wisp ? ” 

He let Basil slip purposely from his arms, and heed- 
less of the sick man’s groans, for the fall was violent, he 
looked down upon him as though a mortal enemy was in 
his path. But one of the strongest elements in greed and 
avarice is the hope that leads their votaries on, and this 
and the superstitious feeling that the meeting had been 
brought about by fate, and was but the beginning of a 


124 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


fruitful end, dispelled the doubt that had arisen. “ I will 
work for it,” he muttered : “it is my only chance. Even 
if nothing comes of it I shall be no worse off. But some- 
thing shall come of it — I swear it. ’’ 

Reassured, he took up his burden, and in the course of 
an hour reached the dwelling they had occupied the pre- 
vious night. By that time Basil was in a high fever, and 
Chaytor began to be disturbed by the fear that his double 
would die. Then, indeed, his labor would be lost and 
his hopes destroyed, for he had much to learn and much 
to do before the vague design which spurred him on could 
be developed and ripened. 

Chaytor had a secret store of provisions which he had 
hoarded up unknown to Jim the Hatter and the Nonenti- 
ties ; some tins of preserved meat and soup, the remains 
of a sack of flour, two or three pounds of tea, a few bot- 
tles of spirits, and a supply of tobacco. These would 
have served for a longer time than Basil’s sickness lasted, 
and Chaytor comforted himself with the reflection that he 
could not have carried them away with him had he been 
compelled to leave the deserted township. It was really 
Basil’s stout and healthy constitution that pulled him 
through a fever which would have proved fatal to many 
men. He did not recover his senses forsixteen days, and 
as he had nothing to conceal he, during that time, re- 
vealed to Chaytor in his wild wanderings much of his 
early life. When at length he opened his eyes, and they 
fell with dawning consciousness upon the man standing 
beside his bed, Chaytor was in possession of particulars, 
innocent enough in themselves, but dangerous if intended 
to be used to a wily and dangerous end. During those 
sixteen days Chaytor had not been idle, having employed 
himself industriously in studying and imitating the few 
peculiarities in Basil’s writing. To a past-master like 
himself this was not difficult, and he succeeded in pro- 
ducing an imitation so perfect as to deceive any one 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


I2 5 

familiar with Basil s style. He was careful in destroying 
every evidence of this vile study. 

Basils eyes fell upon Chaytor’s face, and he was silent 
awhile. Chaytor also. Basil closed his eyes, opened 
them again, and fell-to once more pondering upon mat- 
ters. Then Chaytor spoke. 

“ Do you know me at last? ” he asked. 

“ Know you ! At last ! ” echoed Basil. “I have seen 
you before — but where ? ” 

“ Here, in Gum Flat township.” 

“I am in Gum Flat township. Yes, I remember, I 
was riding that way on old Corrie’s mare.” He jumped 
up, or rather tried to do so, his weak state frustrating his 
intention. ‘‘Where are the robbers ? ” 

“That’s the question,” said Chaytor, “and echo 
answers. Not very satisfactory.” 

“ It is coming back to me little by little,” said Basil 
presently. “I arrived here late at night and found the 
township deserted by all but four men, three of them 
scoundrels, the fourth a noble fellow whose name was — 
was — what has happened to me that my memory plays 
me tricks ? I have it now — whose name was Newman 
Chaytor. ” 

“ A true bill. He stands before you.” 

“You are the man. What occurred next ? He found 
a stable for old Corrie’s mare, gave me food and a bed, 
while the three scoundrels looked on frowning. I slept 
like an unfaithful steward ; the mare being Corrie’s and 
not mine, and I doubtful of the character and intentions 
of the scoundrels. I should have kept watch over prop- 
erty that did not belong to me. Instead of doing that I 
consulted my own ease and pleasure.” 

“You could not help it ; you were tired out.” 

“ No excuse. I made no attempt to guard old Corrie’s 
mare. If I had watched and fallen asleep from weari- 
ness at my post it might have been another matter. When 


26 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


I present myself to old Corrie, that is if I am ever able to 
stand upon my legs again, I shall put no gloss upon my 
conduct. He shall hear the plain unvarnished truth from 
the unfaithful stewards own lips. I am unworthy of 
confidence or friendship ; I warn you, Newman Chaytor, 
put no trust in me.” 

“I would trust you,” said Chaytor, with well-simulated 
candor, “ with my life.” 

“The more fool you. Where was I? Oh, asleep in 
the comfortable bed you gave me while these scoundrels 
were planning robbery. In the middle of the night I 

woke up — pitch dark it was forgive me for speaking 

ungratefully to you. My heart is overflowing with grati- 
tude, but I am at the same time filled with remorse.” 

“ Don’t trouble about that, Basil, ” said Chaytor. “You 
can’t hurt yourself in my esteem. Go on with your 
reminiscence ; it is a healthy exercise ; it will strengthen 
your wandering memory.” 

“Pitch dark it was. I was not sure then, but I am 
now, that thieves had been in my room. Have I been 
lying here long, Chaytor? ” 

“Two weeks and more.” 

“And have you been nursing me all that time?” 

“As well as I could. You could have found no other 
nurse — though easy to find a better — in Gum Flat ; you 
and I are the only two living humans in the township.” 

“Why did you not leave me to die? ” 

“Because I am not quite a brute.” 

“Forgive me for provoking such a reply. But why — 

indeed, why have you been so good to me?” 

“I will answer you honestly, Basil, because I love 
you.” 

He lowered his voice and bent his eyes to the ground 
as he made the false statement ; and Basil turned his head, 
and a little sob escaped him at the expression of devotion. 

“I hope I may live to repay you,” he said gently, 
holding out his hand, which Chaytor seized. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


I2 7 

“You will. All I ask of you is not to desert me. Stick 
to me as a friend, as 1 have stuck to you ; I have been so 
basely deceived in friendship that my faith in human 
goodness would be irrevocably shattered if you proved 
false/’ His voice faltered ; tears came into his eyes. 

“ That will I never do. My life is yours.” 

“1 want your heart.” 

“You have it. The world contains no nobler man 
than my friend Newman Chaytor.” 

“Iam well repaid. Now you must rest; you have 
talked enough.” 

“No, I will finish first. Hearing sounds outside the 
tent I called for your assistance. We went out together 
and were immediately attacked. Were you hurt much, 
Chaytor ? ” 

“A little,” replied Chaytor modestly. “A scratch or 
two not worth mentioning.” 

“It is like you to make light of your own injuries. 
We pursued the scoundrels through the darkness, but they 
knew the ground they were travelling, we did not. An 
uncovered shaft lay in my way, and down I fell. That 
is all I remember. But I know that my bones would be 
bleaching there at the present moment if it had not been 
for you.” 

“ Try to remember a little more,” said Chaytor, anxious 
that not a grain of credit should be lost to him. “ I came 
up to the shaft sorely bruised, and called out to you. ” 

“Yes, yes, it comes back to me. You brought me 
some brandy — you cheered and comforted me — you 
rolled the4runk of a tree over the mouth of the shaft — it 
was half a mile away — and after hours of terrible agony I 
was brought into the sweet light of day. But for you 
I should have died. Indeed and indeed, I remember 
nothing more. You must tell me the rest.” 

This Chaytor did with an affectation of modesty, but 
with absolute exaggeration of the services he had ren- 


128 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


dered, and Basil lay and listened, and his heart went out 
to the man who had proved so devoted a friend, and had 
sacrificed so much for his sake. 

“My gratitude is yours to my dying day,” he said. 
“No man ever did for another what you have done for 
me. Give me my clothes.” 

“You are not strong enough yet to get up, Basil.” 

“I don’t want to get up. I want to see what the 
scoundrels have left in my pockets.” He felt, and 
cried: “Everything gone! my purse, my pocketbook, 
everything — even a lock of my mother’s hair. They 
might have left me that ! ” 

“They made a clean sweep, I suppose,” said Chay- 
tor. 

He had considered this matter while Basil lay uncon- 
scious, and had come to the conclusion that it would be 
wiser to strip Basil’s pockets bare than to make a selec- 
tion of one or two things, which was scarcely what a 
thief in his haste would have done. Thus it was that 
Basil found his pockets completely empty. 

“You have for a friend the neediest beggar that ever 
drew breath,” said Basil bitterly. 

“ I'll put up with that,” said Chaytor, with great cheer- 
fulness. “ Now, don’t worry yourself about anything 
whatever. You shall share with me to the last pipe of 
tobacco, and when that’s gone we will work for more.” 

“Ah, tobacco! Would a whiff or two do me any 
harm ? ” 

“ Do you good. You’ll have to smoke out of my pipe ; 
the villains have stolen yours.” * 

He filled his pipe, and, giving it to Basil, held a lighted 
match to the tobacco. Basil, lying on his side, watched 
the curling smoke as it floated above his head. Dis- 
tressed as he was, the evidences of Newman Chaytor’s 
goodness Were to some extent a compensating balance 
to his troubles. And now he was enjoying the soothing 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


129 

influence of a quiet smoke. Those persons who regard 
the weed as noxious and baleful have a perfect right to 
their opinion, but they cannot ignore the fact that to 
many thousands of thousands of estimable beings it serves 
as a comforter, frequently indeed as a healer. It was so 
in the present instance. As the smoke wreathed and 
curled above him an ineffable consolation crept into 
Basil's soul. Things seemed at their blackest ; the peace 
and hope of a bright future had been destroyed ; the man 
who had grown to honor him and who had assured him 
of the future, had with awful suddenness breathed his 
last breath ; the little child he loved, and to whom he was 
to have been guardian and protector, was thrust into the 
care of a malignant, remorseless man ; suspicion of foul 
play had been thrown upon him ; oldCorrie had lent him 
his mare, and he had allowed it to be stolen ; he had been so 
near to death that but one man, and he a short time since 
an utter stranger, stood between him and eternity ; and 
he was lying now on a bed of sickness an utter, utter beg- 
gar. Grim enough in all conscience, but the simple 
smoking of a pipe put a different and a better aspect upon 
it. There was hope in the future ; he was young, he 
would get well and strong again ; Anthony Bidaud was 
dead, but spiritual comfort died not with life ; he would 
see Annette once more, and would take his leave of her 
assured of her love, so far as a child could give such an 
assurance, and in the hope of meeting her again in years 
to come; he would outlive the injurious suspicion of 
wrong-dealing which he did not doubt Gilbert Bidaud 
was spreading against him ; and he would be able to 
vindicate himself in old Corrie’s eyes, and perhaps by- 
and-by recompense the old fellow for the loss of the 
mare. Much virtue in a pipe when it can so transform the 
prospect stretching before a man brought to such a 
pass as Basil had been. 

“ Yes," he said aloud, “ all will come right in the end." 

9 


130 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“Of course it will,” said Chaytor. “What special 
mental question are you answering ? ” 

“ Nothing special. I was thinking in a general way of 
my troubles, and your pipe has put a more cheerful color 
on them. Am I mistaken in thinking you told me you 
were a doctor ? ” 

“No. That is why I have been able to pull you 
through so quickly.” 

“ How long will it be before I am able to get about ? ” 

“At the end of the week, if you will be reasonable.” 

“I promise. I feel well already. The moment I am 
strong enough I must go to Bidaud’s plantation.” 

“ I will go with you.” 

“Of course. We are mates from this day forth. The 
end of the week? Not earlier?” 

“ Don’t be impatient. My plan is to make a perfect 
cure. No patching. At present I am in command.” 

“ I obey. But let it be as soon as possible.” 

Chaytor congratulated himself. However things turned 
out in the future, all had gone on swimmingly up to this 
moment. Every little move he had made had been suc- 
cessful. Basil had not the slightest suspicion that it was 
he who had stolen his pocket-book and purse and emptied 
his pockets. 

“ If an angel from heaven,” chuckled Chaytor that night, 
as he walked to and fro outside the store, “ came and told 
him the truth, he would not believe it. I have him under 
my thumb — under my thumb. How to work his old uncle 
in England? How to get hold of that forty thousand 
pounds ? It must not go out of the family ; I will not sub- 
mit to it. Would a letter or two from Basil, written by 
me in Basil’s hand, do any good ? I don’t mind eating 
any amount of humble pie to accomplish my purpose. 
Even were it not a vicarious humiliation I am willing to 
do it, the money being guided into its proper channel, and 
Basil safely out of the way.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


131 

He paused, with a sinister look in his eyes. Had Basil 
seen him then he would hardly have recognized him. 
Dark thoughts flitted through his mind, and animated his 
features. 

“ Nothing shall stop me,” he cried, “nothing!” And 
he raised his hand to the skies, as though registering an 
oath. A sad cloud stole upon the moon and obscured its 
light. “ What is life without enjoyment? ” he muttered. 
“ By fair means or foul I mean to enjoy. I should like 
to know what we are sent into the world for if we are de- 
prived of a tair share of the best things?” There being 
no one to answer him, he presently went inside to bed. 

The next day Basil was so much better that without 
asking permission he got up and dressed himself. Chaytor 
did not remonstrate with him ; he knew, now that Basil 
was mending, that he would mend quickly. So it proved ; 
before the week was out the two men set forth on the tramp 
to Bidaud’s plantations. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

At noon on the second day they were within hail of old 
Corrie’s hut. It was meal-time, and the old woodman 
was cooking his dinner. Balanced on a blazing log was 
a frying-pan filled with mutton-chops, some half-dozen 
or so, which were not more than enough for a tough-limbed 
fellow working from sunrise till sunset in the open air. 
He looked up as Basil and Chaytor approached, and with 
a nod of his head proceeded to turn the frizzling chops 
in the pan. This was his way ; he was the reverse of 
demonstrative. 

Such a greeting from another man, and that man a friend, 
would have disconcerted Basil, but he was familiar with 
old Corrie’s peculiarities, and had it not been for his own 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


132 

inward disquiet regarding the mare, he would have felt 
quite at his ease. 

“ Back again/’ said old Corrie, transferring a couple of 
chops on to a tin plate. 

“ Yes,” said Basil. 

“Been away longer than you expected. ” 

“Yes.” 

“ On the tramp ? ” 

“Yes. Look here, Corrie ” 

“There’s no hurry,” interrupted old Corrie. “You 
must be hungry. Go inside, and you'll see half a sheep 
dressed. Cut off what you want, and cook it while the 
fire serves.” 

“But I would rather say first what I have to say. 
When I’ve told you all, my mate and I might not be 
welcome.” 

“Don’t risk it, then. Never run to court trouble, Master 
Basil. I’m an older man than you ; take the advice I give 
you. ” 

“ It is good advice,” said Chaytor, whose appetite was 
sharp set, and to whom the smell of the chops was well- 
nigh maddening. 

Old Corrie looked at him with penetrating eyes, and 
Chaytor bore the gaze well. He was not deficient in a 
certain quality of courage when he was out of peril and 
master of the situation, as he believed himself to be here. 
Old Corrie showed no sign of approval or disapproval, 
but proceeded quietly with his dinner. Basil took the 
woodman’s advice. He went into the hut, cut a sufficient 
number of chops from the half body of the sheep which 
was hanging up, and came back and took possession of 
the frying-pan, which was now at his disposal. Chaytor 
looked on ; he had not been made exactly welcome, and 
was in doubt of old Corrie’s opinion of him, therefore he 
did not feel warranted in making himself at home. When 
the young men commenced their meal, old Corrie had 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


133 

finished his, and now, pipe in mouth, he leant his back 
against a great tree and contemplated his guests. 

“ Little lady ! little lady ! ” 

The sound came from within the hut. Chaytor started, 
Basil looked up with a piece of mutton between his thumb 
and knife : forks they had none. 

“Basil! Basil! Basil and Annette! little lady! little 
lady ! ” 

“It’s the magpie I told you about, ” said old Corrie to 
Basil, “the last time I saw you/’ 

“ Its vocabulary is extended,” said Basil. 

“By request,” said old Corrie in a pleasant voice, “ of 
the little lady herself.” 

Basil glowed. Annette had not forgotten him, even 
thought kindly of him ; otherwise, why should she wish 
that the bird old Corrie was training for her should become 
familiar with his name? Chaytor smarted under a sense 
of injury. Basil and old Corrie were speaking of some- 
thing which he did not understand — a proof that Basil had 
not told him everything. This, in Cl\aytor’s estimation, 
was underhanded and injurious. Basil and everything in 
relation to him, his antecedents, his whole story, belonged 
by right to him, Newman Chaytor, who had saved his 
life, who had the strongest claim of gratitude upon him 
which a man could possibly have. Old Corrie noted the 
vindictive flash in his eyes, but made no comment upon it. 

“ And is that really a bird? ” said Chaytor in a tone of 
polite inquiry. 

“ Go and see for yourself,” replied old Corrie ; but don’t 
go too close, It hasn’t the best of tempers.” 

“I should like to see the bird that could frighten me,” 
said Chaytor, rising. 

“ Should you ? ” said old Corrie. “ Then, on second 
thoughts, I prefer that you stay where you are.” 

Chaytor laughed and resumed his seat. The meal pro- 

ceeded in silence after this, and when the last chop was 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


134 

disposed of, old Corrie said : “ Now we will have our chat, 
Master Basil ; and as we’ve a few private matters to talk 
of, our mate here perhaps ” 

The hint was plain, though imperfectly expressed. 

“Iam in the way,” said Chaytor. “ I’ll smoke my 
pipe in the woods. Coo-ey when you want me, Basil.” 

He strode off ; exterior genial and placid, interior like 
a volcano. “ He shall pay for it,” was his thought. It 
pleased him to garner up a store, of imaginary injuries 
which were to be requited in the future. Then, when the 
time arrived for him to deal a blow, it would be merely 
giving tit-for-tat. Many men besides Chaytor reason in 
this crooked way, but none whose natures and motives 
are honorable aad straightforward. 

“ Where did you pick him up? ” asked old Corrie when 
he and Basil were alone. 

“I want to speak to you first about your mare,” said 
Basil. 

“And I want to know first where you picked up your 
new mate,” persisted Corrie. 

“ He saved my life,” said Basil. “ Had it not been for 
his great and unselfish kindness I should not be here to- 
day.” Then he told the woodman all that he knew of 
Chaytor, and dilated in glowing terms upon his noble 
conduct. 

“ It sounds well, ” said old Corrie, “ and I have nothing 
to say in contradiction ; only I have a crank in me. I 
look into a man’s face and I like him, and I look into a 
man’s face and I don’t like him. The first time I clapped 
eyes on you, Master Basil, I took a fancy to you. I can’t 
say the same for your mate, but let it stand. I had it in 
my mind to make a proposition to you in case you came 
back in time, but I doubt whether it can be carried out 
now. Have you entered into a bargain to go mates with 
him ? ” 

“I have, and have no wish to break it. I should be 
the basest of men if I tried to throw him over.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


135 

“ Keep to your word, lad ; I’m the loser, for I thought 
it likely the two of us might strike up a partnership.” 

“Why not the three of us ? ” asked Basil, to whom the 
prospect of working with old Corrie was very agreeable. 

“Because in the first place it wouldn't suit me, and in 
the second it wouldn’t suit him.” 

“ But if he were willing ? ” 

Old Corrie bent his brows kindly upon Basil’s ingenuous 
face. “Ask him, Master Basil.” 

“Will you not listen to me first? I want to speak to 
you about your mare.” 

“A quarter of an hour more or less won’t bring her 
back, will it?” said old Corrie, with no touch of reproach 
in his voice. “Go and speak to your mate, and let me 
know what he says.” 

Basil departed and returned. It was as old Corrie sup- 
posed : Chaytor was not willing to admit Corrie into their 
partnership. 

“He says you took a dislike to him from the first,” 
said Basil. 

“ Almost my own words,” said old Corrie, with a laugh. 
“ He’s a shrewd customer.” 

“ And that he is certain you and he would not agree. 

I would give a finger off each hand if it could have been, 
for a warmer-hearted and nobler man does not exist than 
Chaytor ; and as for you, Corrie, I would wish nothing 
better. But I am bound to him by the strongest ties of 
gratitude.” 

“Say no more, Master Basil, say no more. Mayhap 
we shall meet by-and-by, and we shall be no worse friends 
because this has fallen through. We have a lot to say to 
each other. I’m off the day after to-morrow ; I should 
have been off before if it had not been for you and the 
little lady.” 

“She has been here? ” cried Basil. 

“She has been here four times since you left — the last 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


136 

time yesterday — not to see me, but you. She manages 
the thing herself, poor little lady, and comes alone, after 
giving the slip to those about her. Her first grief is over, 
though she will never forget the good father she has lost 
— never. It isn't in her nature to forget — bear that in mind, 
Master Basil. She clings to the friends that are left her. 
Friends, did I say? Why, she has only one — you, Master 
Basil ; I don’t count. Besides, if I did it would matter 
little to her, for there's nothing more unlikely than that, 
after two days have gone by, I shall ever look upon her 
sweet face again. She goes one way, I go another.” 

“She goes one way?” repeated Basil ; “will she not 
remain on the plantation ? ” 

“She will not. You see, it isn’t for her to choose ; she 
must do as she is directed. But we are mixing up things, 
and it will help them right well if I tell you what I’ve got 
to tell straight on, commencing with A, ending with Z. 
Let us clear the ground, so that the axe may swing with- 
out being caught in loose branches. I’ll hear what you’ve 
got to say. My mare is lost, I know.” 

“ How do you know ? ” 

“You would have brought it back with you if it hadn’t 
been. Now then, lad, straight out, no beating about the 
bush ; it’s not in your line. I don’t for a moment mistrust 
you. There’s truth in your face always, Master Basil, 
and I wish with all my heart the little lady had you by 
her side to guide her instead of the skunk that’s stepped 
into her dead father’s shoes. You’re a square man, and 
my mare is lost through no fault of yours, my lad.” 

Encouraged by these generous words, Basil told his 
story straight, and old Corrie listened with a pleasant 
face. 

“The mare’s gone,” said old Corrie, when Basil had 
done, “and bad luck go with her. I know the brands on 
her ; mayhap I shall come across her one of these fine days. 
Describe the rascals to me.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


*37 

Basil did as well as he could, and said old Corrie was 
not treating him as he deserved. 

“ I am treating you as an honest gentleman/’ said old 
Corrie, “ as I know you to be. Jim the Hatter the villain’s 
called, is he? When a man once gets a nickname on the 
goldfields it sticks to him through thick and thin ; if we 
meet he shall remember it. I give you a receipt in full, 
Master Basil.” And the good fellow held out his two 
hands, which Basil shook heartily. “I was sure some- 
thing serious kept you away.” With Basil’s hand clasped 
firmly in his, he gazed steadily into the young man’s face. 

“It is an odd fancy I’ve got,” he said, “but it’s come 
across me two or three times while we've been talking 
Is there any relationship between you and your new 
mate ? ” 

“None.” 

“Sure of that? ” 

“ Sure.” 

“ And you met for the first time on Gum Flat? ” 

“ For the first time.” 

“Well, it is odd, and the more I look at you now the 
odder it becomes. You’ve let your hair grow since you 
went away.” 

“Obliged to,” said Basil, laughing. “I had no razor. 
There are a couple I can claim in Mr. Bidaud’s house, as 
well as a brush or two ; but I daresay I shall not get them 
now that Mr. Gilbert Bidaud is in possession. What is 
your odd fancy, Corrie? ” 

“Why, that you and your new mate would be as like 
each other as two peas, if you were dressed alike and 
trimmed your hair alike. Haven’t you noticed it your- 
self? ” 

“ I’ve noticed that we resemble each other somewhat,” 
said Basil, “ but not to the extent you mention. I think 
now he spoke of it himself, and that is one reason perhaps 
why he took a liking tQ IB?, and nursed me as he did. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


138 

But I am terribly anxious to hear about the plantation and 
Annette. What is going to happen there that she is to 
leave it ? v 

“In my own way, Master Basil,” said old Corrie, brush- 
ing his hand across his eyes to chase the fancy away, 
“and to commence at the beginning. When you left me 
in the wood I was splitting slabs, a job I was doing for 
poor Mr. Anthony Bidaud. You doubted whether his 
brother would hold to it, as there was no written bond to 
show for it, and you were right. I went up to the house, 
as I said I would, and saw Mr. Gilbert. You described 
him well, Master Basil ; he’s a man I would be sorry to 
trust. I told him of the contract between me and his 
brother. ‘Where is it?’ he asked. ‘There was none 
written, ’ I answered ; ‘ it was an order given as a dozen 
others have been, and of course you’ll abide by it.’ ‘Of 
course I will not,’ said he. ‘Who are you that I should 
take your word ? And you would fix your own price for 
the slabs ? Clever, Mr. Corrie. Clever, Mr. Corrie ! ’ I 
had told him my name. ‘But I am a cleverer and a 
sharper.’ A sharper he is in the right meaning of it, but 
he is not English, and didn’t exactly know what he was 
calling himself. ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘the moment a man’s 
dead the vultures come. You are one. But I am equal 
to you. Burn your slabs.’ ‘You’re a pretty specimen,’ 
I said. ‘Your brother was a gentleman ; it doesn’t run 
in the family.’ He’s a strange man, Master Basil, and if 
he ever loses his temper he takes care not to show it. 
More than what I’ve told you passed between us, and 
once he said quite coolly that if I could summon his 
brother as a witness he was willing to abide by his testi- 
mony. The testimony of a dead man ! And to speak so 
lightly of one’s flesh and blood ! I wouldn’t trust such a 
man out of my sight.” 

“Did you see his sister?” asked Basil. 

“‘I did, but she said very little, and never spoke with- 


BASIL AMD AMNETTE. 


139 

out looking- at Mr. Gilbert for a cue. He gave it her always 
in a silent way that passed my comprehension, but they 
understand each other by signs.” 

“ And Annette — did you see her ? ” 

“Yes, but at a distance. They kept her from me, I 
think, but I saw her looking at me quite mournfully, and 
I felt like going boldly up to her ; but second thoughts 
were best, and I kept away, only giving her to understand 
as well as I could without speaking that I was her friend, 
ready at any time to do her a service. ‘Well,’ said I to 
Mr. Gilbert, ‘my compliments to you. Your throwing 
over the contract your brother made won't hurt me a bit ; 
I could buy up a dozen like you ’ — which was brag, Master 
Basil, and he knew it was — ‘ but I should be sorry to dis- 
honor the dead as you are doing/ He took out a snuff- 
box, helped himself fo a pinch, smiled, and said, ‘ Senti- 
ment, Mr. Corrie, sentiment. I treat the dead as I treat 
the living. Rid me of you. ’ It was his foreign way of 
bidding me pack, but I told him I should take my time, 
that I had plenty of friends among his brother’s workmen, 
and that I should go away very slowly. ‘ And let me 
give you a piece of advice,’ I said. ‘ If you or any agent 
of yours comes spying near my hut I’ll mark him so that 
he shall remember it.’ ‘ Ah, ah,’ he said, still smiling in 
my face, ‘threats, eh?’ ‘Yes, threats,’ said I, ‘and as 
many more of ’em as I choose to give tongue to. ’ * Foolish 
Mr. Corrie, foolish Mr. Corrie/ he said, taking more 
snuff, ‘ to lose your temper. Let me give you a piece of 
advice : think first, speak afterwards. It is a lesson — take 
it to heart. You are too impulsive, Mr. Corrie, like another 
person who also trespasses here, one who calls himself 
Basil.’ * Mr. Basil is a friend of mine,’ I said ; ‘say one 
word against him, and I’ll knock you down.’ He was 
frightened, though he didn’t show it, and he beckoned 
to a man, who came and stood by him. You know 
him, I daresay, Master Basil ; his name is Rocke.” 


140 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“ He is my enemy, I am afraid/' said Basil. 

“ I found that out afterwards ; he has been spreading 
reports about you, either out of his own spite, or employed 
by cold-blooded Mr. Gilbert Bidaud. So Rocke came and 
stood by his side, but not too willingly. We’ve met before, 
Rocke and me, and he knows the strength of my muscle. 
I smiled at him, and he grinned at me, and I said, 1 We 
were speaking of Master Basil, and I was saying that if 
any one said a word against him I was ready to knock 
him down. Perhaps you’d like to say something.’ ‘ Not 
at all,’ said Rocke, and his grin changed to a scowl ; ‘I 
know when it will pay me best to hold my tongue.’ Mr. 
Gilbert Bidaud shook with laughter. ‘ Good Rocke,’ he 
said, ‘ wise Rocke. We’ll make a Judge of you. Any- 
thing more to say ? ’ This was to me, and I answerd, 
almost as cool now as he was himself, ‘Only this. You 
spit upon a dead man’s bond, and you are a scoundrel. 
Don’t come near my hut, you or anyone that sides with 
you.’ Rocke understood this. ‘ But,’ said I, ‘any friend 
of Master Basil’s is heartily welcome, and I’ll give them 
the best I have. So good-day to you, Mr. Gilbert Bidaud.’ 
Then I went among the workmen, and chatted with 
them, and picked up scraps of information, and turned 
the current wherever I saw it was setting against you.” 

“ My hearty thanks for the service, Corrie,” said Basil. 

“ You’re as heartily welcome. If one friend don’ t stick 
up for another behind his back we might as well be tigers. 
You see, Master Basil, you’re a stranger here compared 
with me ; I’ve been chumming with the men this many a 
year, and never had a word with one except Rocke, and 
even he has some sort of respect for me. Then you’re a 
gentleman ; I’m not. My lad, there are signs that can’t 
be hidden ; you’ve got the hall-markon you. Well, when 
I’d done as much as I could in a friendly way, I turned 
my back on the plantation, and came back here, and 
went on with my splitting, as if the contract still held 
good.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


\ 


14 J 


“ Was not that a waste of time, Corrie ? ” 

“ I took my own view of it. There was the dead man 
soon to be in his grave ; here was I with the blood running 
free through my veins. If he’d been alive he’d have kept 
his word ; I was alive, and I’d keep mine. So I finished 
the contract out of respect for Mr. Anthony Bidaud, and 
there the slabs are, stacked and ready. While I was at 
work my thoughts were on you : four days passed, and 
you hadn’t returned. 1 concluded that something had 
happened to you, but that you’d appear some time or 
another, and all I could do was to hope that you’d come 
back before I left the place. I had a great wish to see the 
little lady, but I didn’t know how to compass it. Compassed 
it was, however, without my moving in it. Just a week it 
was after you’d gone that I was at work in the wood ; it 
was afternoon, a good many hours from sundown, when my 
laughing jackass began to laugh outrageous. When we’re 
alone together he behaves soberly and decently, contented 
with quietly laughing and chuckling to himself, and it’s 
only when something out of the way occurs that he gives 
himself airs. He’s the vainest of the vain, Master Basil, 
and he does it to show off. His tantrums made me look 
round, and there, standing looking at me and the laughing 
jackass, without a morsel of fear of me or the bird, was the 
little lady.” 

“ Annette ?” cried Basil. 

“ The little lady herself,” said old Corrie. 


14 ^ 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


CHAPTER XV. 

“ Was she alone ? ” asked Basil. 

‘‘Yes, quite alone. I dropped my axe, told the jackass 
to shut up — which it didn’t, Master Basil — and took the 
hand she held out to me. Such a little hand, Master Basil ! 
I give you my word that as I held it in mine my thoughts 
went back, more years than I’d care to count, to the time 
when I was a little un myself, snuggling close up to my 
mother’s apron. I can’t remember when I’d thought of 
those days last. They were stowed away in a coffin, and 
dropped into a grave which stood between me as a boy 
and me as a man. It’s like having lived two lives, one of 
which was dead and buried. Now, all at once, the dead 
past came to life, and said, in a manner of speaking, “ I 
belong to you,” and it didn’t seem unnatural. The touch 
of the little lady’s hand was like a magic wand, and if she 
had said to me, ‘ Let’s have a game of hop-scotch,’ I 
believe I should have done it, and thought it the proper 
thing to do. But she said nothing of the sort, only looked 
at me with melancholy sweetness, and hoped I was not 
sorry to see her. Sorry ! I was heartily and thankfully 
glad, and I told her so, and the tears came into her pretty 
eyes, and I said, without thinking at the moment that she’d 
lost a dear father, ‘ Don’t cry, don’t cry ! there’s nothing 
to cry for ; ’ but I sat myself right directly by saying, ‘ I 
mean, I hope it isn’t me that makes you cry.’ * No,’ she 
answered, ‘ it’s only that you speak so kind.’ My blood 
boiled up, for those words of hers showed me that since 
her father’s death she had not been treated with kindness, 
and if she hadn’t been a little lady, rich in her own right, 
I should have offered to run off with her there and then. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


143 

But under any circumstances that would have been a 
dangerous thing to do, for her, and me ; it would have 
brought her uncle down upon me, and he'd have had the law 
on his side. So, instead of offering to do a thing so foolish 
I said, ‘ Did you come on purpose to see me ?’ ‘Yes,’ she 
answered, ‘ on purpose. I gave them the slip, and they 
don’t know where I am.’ ‘ Don’t you be afraid then, my 
little maid,’ I said, ‘ they won’t find you here, because 
they won't venture within half a mile of me. You’ve 
done no harm in coming to see a friend, as you may be 
sure I am. Can I do anything for you?’ ‘Yes,’ she 
said ; ‘ you like Basil, don’t you ? ’ Upon that I said I was 
as true a friend of yours as I was of hers. ‘ Will you tell 
me, please,’ she said then, * why he has gone quite away 
without trying to see me ? I know it wouldn’t be easy, 
because my uncle and aunt are against him ; but I 
thought he would have tried. I have been to every one 
of his favorite places, in the hope of meeting him, and 
my uncle has said such hard things of him that my heart 
is fit to break.’ Poor little lady ! She could hardly speak 
for her tears. Well, now, that laughing jackass was mak- 
ing such a chatter, and behaving so outrageous, pretend- 
ing to sob, which made her sob the more, that I proposed 
to take her to my hut here, where we could talk quietly. 
She put her little hand in mine and walked along with 
me to my hut, and the minute we came in tjie magpie 
cried out, ‘ Little lady, little lady.’ She looked up at this, 
and I told her it was a magpie I was training for her. It 
gave her greater pleasure than such a little thing as that 
ought to have done, and though she did not say it in so 
many words I saw in her face the grateful thought that she 
still had friends in the world that had grown so sad and 
lonely. Then I told her all about your last meeting with 
me — how tenderly you had spoken of her, what love you 
had for her, and how I had lent you my mare to take you 
to a place where you hoped to find a doctor and a lawyer 


144 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


who might be able to serve her in some way. The news 
comforted her, but she was greatly distressed by the fear 
that you had met with an accident which prevented your 
return. I wouldn't listen to this for the little maid’s sake, 
and said I was positive you would soon be back, and that 
nothing was farther from your mind than the idea of going 
away entirely without seeing her again. ‘ He will have to 
make haste,’ said the little lady, with a world of thought 
in her face, * or he will never be able to find me. ’ I asked 
why, and she answered that she believed when every- 
thing was settled that her uncle would sell the plantation 
and take her away to Europe. ‘ Can’t it be prevented ?’ 
she asked, and I said I was afraid it could not ; that her 
uncle stood now in the place of her father, and could do 
as he liked. ‘ If you are compelled to go,’ I said, ‘ you 
shall take the magpie away with you to remind you of the 
old place — that is, if you will be allowed to keep it.’ ‘I 
shall be,’ she said ; and now, child as she was, I noticed 
in her signs of a resolute will I hadn’t given her credit 
for. * If you give it to me, it will be mine, and they shall 
not take it from me. I will fight for it, indeed I will. 
I was pleased to hear her speak like that ; it showed that 
she had spirit which would be of use to her when she was 
a woman grown. She stopped with me as long as she 
dared, and before she went away she said she would 
come again, and asked me if I thought I could teach the 
bird to speak your name. ‘ It would be easy enough,’ 
I answered, and that is how it comes about that the mao-- 

o 

pie — which for cleverness and common-sense, Master 
Basil, I would match against the cunningest bird that ever 
was hatched — can call out ‘ Basil — Basil,’ as clearly as 
you pronounce your own name. It was at that meeting, 
and at every meeting afterwards she gave me a message 
to you if you returned. You were to be sure not to go away 
again without seeing her ; if you couldn’t contrive it she 
would ; that proved her spirit again ; and that if it should 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


145 

unfortunately happen that you returned after she was 
taken away you were never to forget that Annette loved 
you, and would love you all her life, whatever part of the 
world she might be in. Those are her words, as near as 
I can remember them, and they’re easy enough for you to 
understand, but it isn’t so easy to make you understand 
the voice in which she spoke them. I declare, Master 
Basil, it runs through me now, broken by little sobs, 
with her pretty hands clasping and unclasping themselves, 
and her tender body shaking like a reed.” 

“ Dear little Annette,” said Basil, and his eyes, too, 
were tearful, and his voice broken a little ; “ dear little 
Annette. ” 

“ She’s worth a man’s thoughts, Master Basil,” said old 
Corrie, “ and a man’s pity, and will be better worth ’em 
when she’s a woman grown. You’re a fortunate man, 
child as she is, to have won a love like the little lady’s, 
for if I’m a judge of human nature, and I believe myself 
to be— which isn’t exactly conceit on my part, mind you 
— it’s love that will last and be never forgotten. It’s no 
light thing, Master Basil, love like that ; when it comes 
to a man he’ll hold on to it if he’s got a grain of sense in 
him.” 

“ You cannot say one word in praise of Annette,” said 
Basil, “ that I’m not ready to cap with a dozen. I believe, 
with you, that she has a soul of constancy, and I hold her 
in my heart as I would a beloved sister. If I could only 
help and advise her ! But how can I do that when she 
is to be taken away to a distant land?” 

“ There’s no telling what may happen in the future,” 
said old Corrie. “ What to-day seems impossible to-mor- 
row comes to pass. To beat one’s head against a stone 
wall because things aren’t as we wish them to be is the 
height of foolishness, but it’s my opinion that going on 
steadily, doing one’s duty, working manfully and doing 
what’s right and square, is the best and surest way to 

10 


146 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


open out the road we’d like to tread. Your new mate, 
Mr. Chaytor, hasn’t disturbed us, and I must do him the 
justice to say that he shows sense and discretion.” 

“He is one in a thousand,” said Basil, “ and it is im- 
possible for me to express to you how sorry I am that 
you have not taken kindly to each other.” 

“ It does happen sometimes, but not often, that men 
are mistaken in their likings and dislikings, but we’ll not 
argue the point. Now I’ve got to tell you how things 
stand at the plantation. There was an inquest on the 
body of Mr. Anthony Bidaud, doctors and lawyers being 
called in by Mr. Gilbert, and the verdict' was that he died 
of natural causes. There being no will, Mr. Gilbert, took 
legal possession, as guardian to his niece under age. 
He decides that it will not be good for her to remain 
where she is ; she must be educated as a lady, and brought 
up as one. That, says Mr. Gilbert, can’t be done on the 
plantation : It must be done in a civilized country. Con- 
sequently the plantation must be sold. With lawyers paid 
to push things on, three months’ work has been done in 
three weeks. A purchaser has been found, deeds drawn 
up, money paid, and next Monday they’re off, Mr. Gilbert 
Bidaud, his sister, name unknown, and the little lady.” 

“ Hot haste, indeed,” said Basil. 

“ To which neither you nor I can have anything to say 
legally.” 

“It is so, unhappily. And then to Europe?” 

“ And then to Europe. I am telling you what the little 
lady tells me. I can’t go beyond that.” 

“ Of course not. But does she not know to what part 
of Europe ? ” 

“She knows nothing more. He keeps his mouth shut ; 
you can’t compel him to open it. There are cases, Master 
Basil, in which honesty is no match for roguery ; this is 
one. Mr. Gilbert Bidaud has the law on his side, and can 
laugh openly at you, Now, the little lady was here yes- 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


( 


147 


terday. ‘ No news of Basil ? ' she asked. ‘ No news of 
Basil/ I said. ‘ Is he dead do you think ? ' she whispered, 
with a face like snow. ‘ No/ I said stoutly ; ‘ don't you 
go on imagining things of that sort. He’s alive, and will 
give a satisfactory account of himself when he comes 
back/ I spoke confidently to keep up her heart, though 
I had misgivings of you. 4 I shall be here to-morrow/ 
she said, ‘ and every day till we leave the plantation/ 
She has contrived cleverly, hasn't she, to slip them as she 
does ? " 

“ Then I shall see her soon ! " said Basil, eagerly. 

“ In less than an hour, if she comes at her usual time. 
Our confab is over. You had best go and seek your mate. 
I’ll make my apologies to him, if he needs 'em, for keep- 
ing you so long.” 

If Basil had known, he had not far to go to find New- 
man Chaytor, for that worthy was quite close to him. 
Being of an inquiring mind Chaytor had resolved to hear 
all that passed between Basil and old Corrie, and had 
found a secure hiding-place in the rear, and well within 
earshot, of the two friends. He stored it all up, being 
blessed with an exceptionally retentive memory. Old 
Corrie went one. way, and Basil went another, and Chay- 
tor emerged from his hiding-place. “ I am quite curious 
about little Annette,” he said to himself, as he followed 
Basil at a safe distance. “ Quite a sentimental little 
body — and an heiress, too ! Well, we shall see. Say 
that my friend Basil's future is a nut — I'll crack it; I may 
find a sweet kernel inside.” 

He came up to Basil, and greeted him with a frank 
smile. “ We've been talking about the plantation,” said 
Basil, “ and poor Anthony Bidaud's daughter, Annette. 
She is coming this afternoon to see me. I'll tell you 
everything by-and-by. ” 

“ i don't want to intrude upon your private affairs, 
Basil,” said Chaytor. 


148 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


“ You have a right to know/’ said Basil. “ I have no 
secrets from you, Chaytor.” 

Then they talked of other matters, Chaytor with ani- 
mation, Basil with a mind occupied by thoughts of An- 
nette. “I see,” said Chaytor, patting Basil’s shoulder 
with false kindness, “ that you are thinking of the little 
maid. Now I’m not going to play the churl. Don’t mind 
me for the rest of the day.” 

“ You’re a good fellow,” said Basil, as Chaytor walked 
away ; but he did not walk far. Unobserved by Basil, he 
kept secret watch upon him, determined to see Annette, 
determined to hear what she and Basil had to say to each 
other. As old Corrie had said, “ there are cases in which 
honesty is no match for roguery.” Basil posted himself 
in such a position that he could see any person who 
came towards the wood from Bidaud’s plantation. He 
heard the thud of old Corrie’s axe in the forest ; the honest 
woodman could have remained idle had he chosen, but 
he was unhappy unless he was at work, and though he 
desired no profit from it he felled and split trees for the 
pleasure of the thing. Now and again there came to Basil’s 
ears the piping and chattering of gorgeous-colored birds 
as they fluttered hither and thither, busy on their own con- 
cerns, love-making, nest-mending, and the like ; in their 
commonwealth many torches of human passion and sen- 
timent found a reflex. Vanity was there, jealousy was 
there, hectoring and bullying of the weak were there, and 
much sly pilfering went on ; entertainments, too, were 
being given, for at some distance from the three men in 
the woods, one swinging his axe with a will and wiping 
his cheerful brows, another with his heart in his eyes 
watching for a little figure in the distance, and the third, 
stirred by none but evil thoughts, watching with cunning 
eyes the watcher — at some distance from these two honest 
men and one rogue were assembled some couple of dozen 
feathered songsters in green and yellow coats. They 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


149 

perched upon convenient boughs and branches, forming a 
circle, with invisible music books before them, and at a 
signal given from their leader they began to pipe their songs 
without words, and filled space with melody. Their music 
may be likened to the faintly sweet echoes of skilled bell- 
ringers, each tiny bird the master of a note which was never 
piped unless in harmony. It was while these fairy bells 
were pealing their sweetest chord that Basil saw Annette 
approaching. He ran towards her eagerly, and called her 
name ; and she, with a sudden flush in her face and with 
her heart palpitating with joy, cried, “Basil! Basil ! ” 
and fell into his arms. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

He led her to a secluded spot, followed secretly by fox 
Chaytor. They passed close to where old Corrie was 
working, and he, hearing footsteps — be sure, however, 
that Chaytor’s were noiseless — laid down his axe, and 
went towards them. 

“ He has come — he has come ! ” cried Annette. 

“ What did I tell you ? ” said old Corrie. “ All you’ve 
got to do in this world, little lady, is to have patience.” 

She was so overjoyed, having tight hold of Basil's hand, 
that she would have accepted the wildest theories without 
question. 

“ Mr. Corrie, ” she said, “ may I have the magpie to- 
day ? ” 

“ Surely,” he replied, “ it is quite ready for you, and 
you will be able to teach it anything you please. But 
why so soon ? Aren’t you coming again ? ” 

Her face became sad, and she clutched Basil’s fingers 
convulsively : “I am afraid not ; this is the last, last 
time ! I have heard something, Mr. Corrie, and if it is 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


I 5 0 

true, my uncle and aunt are going to take me away to- 
morrow morning. ” 

“In that case,” said old Corrie, “ I will have the bird 
ready for you. Now you and Master Basil can talk ; I’ll 
not interrupt you.” He went away at once, and left them 
together. For a little while they had nothing of a 
coherent nature to say to each other ; but then Basil, 
recognizing the necessity of introducing some kind of 
system into their conversation, related to Annette all that 
had happened within his knowledge since the sad morning 
of her father’s death, and heard from her lips all that she 
had to relate. Much of it he had already heard from old 
Corrie. The refrain she harped upon was, “And must 
we, must we part, Basil ? And shall we never, never see 
each other again ? ” 

“Part we must, dear Annette,” he said. “I have no 
control over you, and no authority that can in any way 
be established. When I first came to the plantation I was 
a stranger to you and your father, and the law would 
acknowledge me as no better now.” 

“ Next to my dear father and mother,” said Annette, 
“I love you best in all the world. They cannot take that 
away from me ’ what I feel is my own, my very own. 
Oh, Basil, I sometimes have wicked thoughts, and feel 
myself turning bad ; I never felt so before my uncle came.” 

“ Annette, listen to me. You must struggle against 
these thoughts, and must say to yourself, ‘ They will make 
my dear father and mother sorrowful. They have shown 
me kindness and love, and I will show the same to them.’ 
You cannot see them, Annette, but their spirits are 
watching' over you ; and there is a just and merciful God in 
heaven who is watching over you, too, and whom you 
must not offend.” 

I will do as you say, Basil, dear ; I will never, never 
forget your words. They will keep me good. ” 

‘ ‘ Let them keep you brave as well, my dear. I promise 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


151 

to remember you always, to love you always, and perhaps 
when you are a woman — it will not be so long, Annette 
— we shall meet again.” 

“ Oh, Basil, that will be true happiness.” 

‘‘Time flies quickly, Annette. It seems but yesterday 
since I was a boy myself, and when I lookback and think 
of my own dear parents, I am happy in the belief that I 
never did anything to cause them sorrow. ” 

“You could not, Basil.” 

“Ah, my dear, I don’t know that; but I had a good 
mother, and so had you, and my father and yours were 
both noble men. They are not with us, and that makes 
the duty we owe them all the stronger. To do what is 
right because we feel that it is right to do it, not because 
it is done in the sight of others — that is what makes us 
good, Annette. My mother taught me that lesson as she 
lay on her deathbed, and it has brought me great hap- 
piness ; it has supported me in adversity. You must not 
mind my speaking so seriously, Annette ” 

“ I love to hear you, Basil. I will belike you, indeed I 
will.” 

“ Much better, I hope. You see, my dear, this is the 
last time we shall be together for a long time ; but not so 
long, after all, if we look at it in the right light, and I 
should like you to remember me as you would remember a 
brother, who, being older than you, is perhaps a little 
wiser. ” 

“ I will, Basil, all my wicked thoughts are gone ; they 
shall never come again ; but I shall still feel a little un- 
happy sometimes.” 

“ Of course you will, dear, and so shall I. But faith in 
God’s goodness and the performance of our duty will 
always lighten that unhappiness. The stars of heaven 
are not brighter than the stars of hope and love we can 
keep shining in our hearts.” 

“ Kiss me, Basil; that is the seal. I shall go away 
happier now,” 


I 5 2 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“Tell me, Annette. Are your uncle and aunt kind to 
you. ” 

“ They are neither kind nor unkind. They talk a great 
deal to each other, but very seldom to me, unless it is to 
order me to do something. Aunt says, ‘ Go to bed/ and I 
go to bed ; ‘ It is time to get up/ and I get up; ‘Come 
to dinner/ and I come to dinner. It is all like that; they 
never speak to me as my father and mother did, and they 
have never kissed me." 

“You must be obedient to them, Annette.” 

“ I will be, Basil.” 

“ They are your guardians, and a great deal depends 
upon them.” 

“Yes, I know that ; but I don’t think they like me, and, 
Basil, I don’t think uncle is a good man.” 

“It will be better,” said Basil gravely, “not to fancy 
that. It may be only that he is a little different from 
other men, and that you are not accustomed to his ways.” 

“ I will try,” said Annette piteously, “ to obey you in 
everything, but I can't help my thoughts, and I can’t help 
seeing and hearing. He speaks in a hard voice to every- 
body ; he is unkind to animals ; he has never put a flower 
on my dear father’s grave.” 

“There, there, Annette — don’t cry. I only want you 
to make the best, and not the worst, of things.” 

“ I will, Basil — indeed, indeed I will. When I am far 
away from you, you will think, will you not, that I am 
trying hard to do everything to please you ? ” 

“ I promise to think so, and I have every faith in you. 
It is all for your good, you know, Annette. When you 
are out of this country where are your aunt and uncle 
going to live ? ” 

“ In Europe.” 

“ But in what part of Europe ? ” 

“ I don’t know. All that uncle and aunt say is, ‘We 
are going to Europe/ ‘ But in what country ? ’ I asked. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


153 

‘Don’t be inquisitive/ they answered; ‘we are going to 
Europe ; and they will say nothing more. I am some- 
times afraid to speak when they are near me.’’ 

“ Poor little Annette ! Now attend to me, dear. Wher- 
ever you are you can write to me/’ 

“Yes, Basil, yes. And may I ? Oh, how good you are ! 
Oh, if ever I should get a letter from you ! It will be the 
next best thing to having you with me/ 

“ Remember what I am saying, Annette. I want you 
to write to me, wherever you are, and I want to answer 
your letters. This is the way it can be done. When you 
are settled write me your first letter — I shall not mind 

how long it is ” 

“It shall be a long, long one, Basil/’ 

“ And address it to ‘ Mr. Basil Whittingham, Post-office, 
Sydney, New South Wales.’ I shall be sure to get it. 
Now for my answer. If you are happy in your uncle’s 
house, and tell me so, I will send my answer there ; but 
if you think it will be best for me not to send it to his 
house, I will address it to the post-office in whatever town 
or city you may be living. Some friend in the new 
country (you are sure to make friends, my dear) will tell 
you how you may get my letters. This looks a little like 
deceit, but it will be a pardonable deceit if you are un- 
happy — not otherwise. Do you understand ? ” 

“ Perfectly, Basil. I shall have something to think of 
now ; you have given me something to do. And will 
you ever come to me ? ” 

“ It is my hope; I intend to work hard here to get 
money, and if I am fortunate, in a few years, when you 

are a beautiful woman ” 

“ I would like to be, Basil, for your sake.” 

“ I will come to wherever you may be.” 

“ I do not wish for anything more, Basil. I shall pray 
night and morning for your good fortune. How happy 
you have made me — how happy, how happy ! I shall 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


154 

keep the stars of love and hope shining in my heart — for 
you. How beautifully the bell birds are singing. I shall 
hear them when I am thousands of miles away. But, 
Basil, you will want something to remember me by.” 

‘ ‘ No, dear Annette, I need nothing to remind me of you. ” 

“You do, Basil, and I have brought it for you. Look, 
Basil, my locket ” 

“But, Annette ” 

“ Have I said ‘ No * to anything you told me — and will 
you say ‘No ' to this little thing? I think it will not be 
right if you do, so, dear Brother Basil, you must not refuse 
me. I wish I had something better to give you, but you 
will be satisfied with this, will you not ? I have worn it 
always round my neck, since I was a little, little girl, and 
you must wear it round yours. Promise me.” 

“I promise, dear, if you will not be denied.” 

“I will not, indeed I will not — and your promise is 
made. See, Basil, here it lies open in my hand ; take it. 
The picture is a portrait of my dear mother ; father had it 
painted for me by a gentleman who came once to the 
plantation. Then when you come to me in the country 
across the sea, you will show it to me and tell me that 
you have worn it always and always, because you love 
me, and because I love you.” 

“I have nothing to give you, Annette. I am very, 
very poor.” 

“You have given me a star of hope, Basil. How 
sorry I am that you are poor ! But my nurse, who has 
been sent away ” 

“ Have they done that, Annette ? v 

“Yes, and she cried so at leaving me. She told me 
that one day I shall be very, very rich. So what does it 
matter if you are poor? Let me fasten it round your neck. 
Now you have me and my dear mother next your heart.” 

He took the innocent child in his arms, and she lay 
nestling there a few moments with bright thoughts of the 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. I55 

happy future in her mind. Suddenly a loud “Coo-ey” 
was heard, and the sound of hurried footsteps. It was 
old Corrie’s voice that gave the alarm. It was intended 
as such, for when Basil started to his feet and stood with 
his arm round Annette, holding her close to him, he looked 
up, and saw Gilbert Bidaud standing before him. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A malicious smile played about the old man's lips as he 
glanced at Basil and Annette. For a few moments he did 
not speak, but stood enjoying the situation, feeling him- 
self master of it ; and when he broke the silence his voice 
was smooth and suave. The malignancy of his feelings 
was to be found in his words, not in the tone in which he 
uttered them. 

“Ah, Mr. Basil Whittingham once more; Mr. Basil 
Whittingham, the English gentleman, ready at a mo- 
ment’s notice to give lessons in manners, conduct and 
good breeding. But then it is to proclaim oneself a fool 
to take a man at his own estimate of himself. I find you 
here in the company of my niece. Favor me with an 
explanation, Mr. Basil Whittingham.” 

“There is nothing to explain,” said Basil, still with his 
arm round Annette. “I have been absent some time, 
and happening, fortunately, to return before Miss Bidaud 
left the country, have met her here, and was exchanging a 
few words of farewell. ” 

“Of course, of course. Who would venture to dispute 
with so reproachless a gentleman ? Who would venture to 
whisper that in these last few words of farewell there was 
any attempt to work upon a child’s feelings, any attempt 
to make the spurious metal of self-interest shine like 
purest gold? On one side a young girl, as yet a mere 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


156 

child, whose feelings are easily worked upon ; on the 
other side a grown man versed in the cunning of the 
world, and using it with a keen eye to profitable use in 
the future. Not quite an equal match, it appears to me, 
but I may be no judge. If I were to hint that this meet- 
ing between you and my dear niece and ward has any- 
thing of a clandestine nature in it, you would probably 
treat me to a display of indignant fireworks. If I were 
to hint that, instead of so advising this child that she 
should hold out her arms gladly to the new life into 
which she is about to enter, you were instilling into her 
a feeling of repugnance against it, and of mistrust against 
those whose duty it will be to guide her aright and teach 
her — principles ” — his eyes twinkled with malignant hu- 
mor as he spoke this word — “you, English gentleman 
that you are, would repudiate the insinuation with lofty 
scorn. But when you exchange confidences with me you 
are in the presence of a man who has also seen some- 
thing of the world, and who, although it has dealt him 
hard buffets, retains some old-fashioned notions of honor 
and manliness. I apply the test to you, adventurer, and 
you become instantly exposed. Ah ! here is my sister, 
this sweet young child’s aunt, who will relieve you of 
your burden/’ 

He took the hand of the unresisting girl and led her to 
her aunt, whose arm glided round Annette’s waist, holding 
it as in a vice. 

“ I will not answer you,” said Basil, with an encour- 
aging smile at Annette, whose face instantly brightened. 
“Annette knows I have spoken the truth, and that is 
enough.” 

“ Yes, Basil,” said Annette, boldly, “you have spoken 
the truth, and I will never, never forget what you have 
said to me to-day.” 

“ Take her away,” said Gilbert Bidaud to his sister; ” 
u the farce is played out In a week it will be forgotten, ” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


157 

“Good-bye, Basil,” said Annette, “and God bless 
you.” 

“Good-bye, Annette,” said Basil, “and God guard 
you.” 

“ How touching, how touching ! ” murmured Gilbert 
Bidaud. “It is surely a scene from an old comedy. 
Take her away.” 

“Just one moment, please,” said old Corrie, joining 
the group. “ Here is something that belongs to the little 
lady, that she would like to take with her to the new 
world. It will remind her of the old, and of friends she 
leaves in it.” 

It was the magpie in its wicker cage, whose tongue, 
being loosened by company, or perhaps by a desire to 
show off its accomplishments to an appreciative audience, 
became volubly communicative. 

“Basil ! Basil ! Basil and Annette ! Little lady ! Little 
lady ! ” 

In his heart Gilbert Bidaud was disposed to strangle 
the bird, but his smile was amiability itself as he said to 
Annette, “Yours, my child?” 

“Yes, mine,” she answered. “Mr. Corrie gave it to 

_ yy 

me. 

“But Mr. Corrie is not rich,” said Gilbert Bidaud, pull- 
ing out his purse; “you are. Shall we not pay him for 
it?” 

“ No,” said Annette, before old Corrie could speak. “ I 
would not care for it if he took money for it.” 

“Well said, little lady,” said old Corrie ; “the bird is 
friendship’s offering, land for that will be valued and well 
cared for, I don’t doubt. It is your property, mind, and 
no one has a right to meddle with it.” 

“ Friendship’s offering ! ” said Gilbert Bidaud, with a 
long, quiet laugh. “We came out to the bush to learn 
something, did we not, sister? Why, here we find the 
finest of human virtues and sentiments, the smuggest of 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


I 5 8 

moralities, the essence of refined feeling. It is really 
refreshing. Do not be afraid, Mr. Corrie. Although I 
would not take your word about that wood-splitting con- 
tract, I have some respect for you, as a rough specimen 
of bush life and manners. We part friends, I hope.” 

“Not a bit of it,” said old Corrie. “ If ladies were not 
present I’d open my mind to you.” 

“ Thank heaven,” said Gilbert Bidaud, raising his eyes 
with mock devotion, “for the restraining influence of the 
gentler sex. You do pot diminish my esteem for you. I 
know rough honesty when I meet with it.” 

“You shift about,” interrupted old Corrie, “like a 
treacherous wind. I’m rough honesty npw, am I ? You’re 
the kind of man that can turn white into black. Let us 
make things equal by another sort of bargain. I’ve given 
little lady the bird. You’ll not take it from her? ” 

“ Heavens ! ” cried Gilbert Bidaud, clasping his hands. 
“ What do you think of me? ” 

“That’s not an answer. You’ll not take it from her? ” 
“I will not. Keep it, my child, and be happy.” 

“ Do you hear, little lady ? Let us be thankful for small 
mercies. Shake hands, my dear. When you’re a woman 
grown, don’t forget old Corrie. ” 

“I never will — I never will,” sobbed Annette. 

“And don’t forget,” said old Corrie, laying his hand on 
Basil’s shoulder, “ that Master Basil here is a gentleman 
to be honored and loved, a man to be proud of, a man to 
treasure in your heart. ” 

“ I will never forget it,” said Annette, with a fond look 
at Basil. 

“And this, I think,” said Gilbert Bidaud, with genial 
smiles all round, “is the end of an act. Let the curtain 
fall to slow music.” ^ 

But it was not destined so to fall. As Annette’s aunt 
turned to leave with her niece, her eyes, dwelling scorn- 
fully on Basil for a moment, caught sight of the chain 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


159 


attached to the locket which Annette had put round his 
neck. Quick as lightning she put her hand to the child’s 
neck, and discovered the loss. 

“He has stolen Annette’s locket ! ” she cried, pointing 
to the chain. 

As quick in his movements as his sister, Gilbert Bidaud 
stretched forth his hand and tore the locket and chain 
from Basil’s neck. It was done so swiftly and suddenly 
that Basil was unable to prevent it ; but the hot blood 
rushed into his face as he said : 

“Were you a younger man I would give you cause to 
remember your violence. Annette, speak the truth.” 

“I gave it to you, Basil,” said Annette, slipping from 
her aunt’s grasp, and putting her hand on Gilbert Bidaud’s. 
“It is false to say he stole it. It belonged to me, and I 
could do what I pleased with it. I gave it to Basil, and 
he did not want to take it at first, but I made him.” 

She strove to wrench it from her uncle’s hands, but it 
was easy for him to keep it from her. 

“ I will have it ! ” cried Annette. “ I will, I will ! It is 
Basil’s, and you have no right to it.” 

“A storm in a teapot, ’’said Gilbert Bidaud, who seldom 
lost his self-possession for longer than a moment. * ‘ Sister, 
you should apologize to the young gentleman. Take the 
precious gift.” 

But instead of handing it to Basil he threw it over the 
young man’s head, and Newman Chaytor, who, during 
the whole of this scene, had been skulking, unseen, in the 
rear, and had heard every word of the conversation, 
caught it before it fell, and slunk off with it. 

“I shall find it, Annette,” said Basil. “Good-bye, 
once more. May your life be bright and happy ! ” 

Those were the last words, and, being uttered at the 
moment Newman Chaytor caught the locket and was 
slinking off, were heard and treasured by him. 

The whole of that day Basil, assisted by old Corrie and 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


I 6 O 

Chaytor, searched for the locket, of course unsuccessfully. 
He was in great distress at the loss ; it seemed to be 
ominous of misfortune. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

The story of the lives of Basil and Chaytor during the 
ensuing three years may be briefly summarized. So far 
as obtaining more than sufficient gold for the bare neces- 
saries of life was concerned, ill luck pursued them. They 
went from goldfield to goldfield, and followed every new 
rush they heard of, and were never successful in striking 
a rich claim. It was all the more tantalizing because 
they were within a few feet of great fortune at least half- 
a-dozen times. On one goldfield they marked out ground, 
close to a claim of fabulous richness, every bucket of 
wash-dirt that was hauled from the gutter being heavily 
weighted with gold. This was the prospectors’ claim, 
and the shaft next to it struck the gutter to the tune of 
twelve ounces a day per man. The same with the second, 
and Basil and Chaytor had every reason, therefore, to 
congratulate themselves, especially when the men work- 
ing in the claim beyond them also struck the lead, and 
struck it rich. But when at length the two gold-diggers 
in whom we are chiefly interested came upon the gutter, 
they were dismayed to find that instead of ten ounces to 
the tub, it was as much as they could do to wash out ten 
grains. It was the only poor claim along the whole of 
the gutter ; on each side of them the diggers were coining 
money, and they were literally beggars. It is frequently 
so on the goldfields, the life on which very much re- 
sembles a lottery, riches next door to poverty ; but the 
hope of turning up a lucky number seldom dies out in the 
heart of the miner. He growls a bit, apostrophizes his 
hard luck in strong language, is despondent for a day, 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


161 


and the next shakes off his despondent fit, and buckles to 
again with a will, going perhaps to another new rush, 
jubilant and full of hope, to meet again with the same 
bad fortune. The romance of the goldfield is a rich vein 
for novelists, some few of whom have tapped it success- 
fully ; but the theme is far from being worn out, and 
presents as tempting material to-day as it did years ago, 
when gold was first discovered in Australia. 

“It is maddening, Basil, ” said Chaytor, as he gazed 
gloomily at the “prospect” in his tin dish, two or three 
specks which would not have covered a pin’s head. 
“Here we are upon the gutter again, and the stuff will 
wash about half a pennyweight to the tub.” 

“It’s jolly hard,” said Basil, proceeding to fill his pipe 
with cut cavendish, “but what can we do? Grin and 
bear it.” 

“Ah, you’re philosophical, you are,” growled Chaytor, 
but I’m not so easy-minded. Just think of it, and bring a 
little spirit to bear upon it, will you ? ” 

“ Off you go,” said Basil, “I’m listening.” 

“ Here we are on Dead Man’s Flat, and here we’ve 
been these last three weeks. Just four days and three 
weeks ago we struck our claim in Mountain Maid Gully, 
having got two ounces and three pennyweights for our 
month’s hard work. That contemptible parcel of gold 
brought us in barely eight pounds, the gold buyer pre- 
tending to blow away sand before he put it in the scale, 
but blowing away more than two pennyweights of the 
stuff, and reducing it to a little over two ounces. We 
weighed it in our own gold scales before we took it to 
him, and it was two ounces three pennyweights full 
weight. You can’t deny that.” 

“ I’ve no intention of denying it. Don’t be irritable. 
Go on, and let off steam ; it will do you good. ” 

“I want to point out this thing particularly,” fumed 
Chaytor, “so that we can get to the rights of our ill-luck, 

1 1 


lC)2 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


get to the bottom of it, I mean, and find out the why and 
the wherefore. Eight pounds we received for our gold, 
when we should have received eight pounds ten ; not a 
sixpence less ; but the world is full of thieves. Now, 
that eight pounds gives us a little under twenty shillings 
a week a man. Why, I would sooner starve.” 

“ I wouldn't — though Eve had bitter blows, Chaytor.” 

“Not worse than I have.” 

“ It’s the pinching of our own shoes w r e feel, old fellow. 
We're a selfish lot of brutes. Thank you for pulling me 
up. I’m sorry for you, Chavtor. ” 

“And I’m sorry for you. Thinking our claim worthless 
we leave Mountain Maid Gully, and come here to Dead 
Man’s Flat. We are ready to jump out of our skins with 
joy, for we come just in time — so we think. Here’s a new 
lead struck, with big nuggets in it, and we mark out our 
claim exactly one hundred and twenty feet from the pros- 
pectors’ ground. They get one day twenty ounces, the 
next day twenty-eight, the next day forty-two — a fortune, 
if it lasts.” 

“Which it seldom does.” 

“ It often does, and even if it lasts only six or seven 
weeks, it brings in a lot. ‘We’re in luck this time,’ I say 
to you, and I dream of nuggets as big as my head. The 
gutter, we reckon, is forty feet down, and we reach it in 
three weeks. Everybody round us is making his pile — 
why shouldn’t we ? But before we strike the lead a digger 
comes up, and says, ‘ Hallo, mates, have you heard about 
the claim you left in -Mountain Maid Gully?’ ‘No,’ say 
we, ‘ what about it ! ‘ Oh,’ says the digger, ‘ only that 

two new chums jumped into it after you’d gone away and 
found out it was the richest claim on the goldfield. They 
took a thousand ounces out of it the second week they 
were at work.’ What do you say to that, Basil? ” 

“Jolly hard luck, Chaytor.” 

“Cursed hard luck, I say.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


163 

“ Strong words won’t better it.” 

“They’re a relief. You take it philosophically, I admit ; 
I growl over it like a bear with a sore head. I’d like to 
know why there’s this difference between us?” 

“ I’ll try and tell you presently, when you’ve finished 
about the two claims. ” 

“All right. I shouldn’t be much of a man if the news 
about the ground we ran away from didn’t rile me. I 
was so wild I could hardly sleep that night. But when I 
heard that in the next claim to the one we re working 
now a nugget weighing a hundred and fifty ounces was 
found, I thought perhaps we’d got a richer claim than the 
one we’d deserted. So I bottled up my bad temper, and 
went on working with a good grace. And now we’re on 
the gutter again, and here’s the result.” He held out the 
tin dish, and gazed at the tiny specks of gold with dis- 
gust. “Why, it’s the very worst we’ve struck yet.” 

“Not quite that. We’ve had as bad. What shall we 
do ? Stick to it, or try somewhere else ? ” 

“We daren’t go away. Stick to it we must. If we left 
it, and I heard afterwards the same sort of story we were 
told about our claim on Mountain Maid, I should do 
somebody a mischief. You agree with me, then, that we 
remain and work the claim out?” 

“ I agree to anything you wish, Chaytor. I will stay 
or go away, just as you decide.” 

Chaytor looked at him with an eye of curiosity. “Were 
you ever a fellow of much strength of character, Basil ? ” 

“I think so, once; not in any remarkable degree, but 
sufficient for most purposes.” 

“And now ? ” 

“And now,” replied Basil, taking his pipe from his 
mouth, and holding it listlessly between his fingers, “the 
life seems to have gone out of me. The only tie that 
binds me to it is you. I owe you an everlasting debt of 
gratitude, old fellow, and I wish I could do something to 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


164 

repay it. But in tying yourself to me you are tied to a 
log that keeps dragging you down. The ill-luck that pur- 
sues us comes from me. Throw me off, and fortune will 
smile upon you.” 

‘ ‘ And upon you ? ” 

“No. The taste of all that’s sweet and beautiful has 
gone out of my mouth ; I’m a soured man inside of me ; 
you’re a thousand times better than I am. What is bitter- 
est in you comes uppermost ; it pleases you to hide the 
best part of you ; but you cannot hide it from me, for I’ve 
had experience of you and know you. Now, I’m the 
exact reverse. Outwardly you would think I’m an easy- 
going, easy-natured fellow, willing always to make the 
best of things, and to look on the brightest side. It is 
untrue; I am a living hypocrite. Inwardly I revile the 
world ; because of my own disappointments I can see 
no good in it. Good fortune or bad fortune, what does it 
matter to me now ? It cannot restore my faith, it cannot 
destroy the shroud which hangs over my heart. That is 
the difference between us. You are a thoroughly good 
fellow, and I am a thoroughly bad one.” 

“It was not always the same with you. How have 
you become soured? ” 

“Through experience. Look here, Chaytor, it is only 
right you should be able to read me. You have bared 
your heart to me, and it is unfair that I should keep mine 
closed. There have been times when business of your 
own has called you to Sydney. We were never rich enough 
to go together, so you had to go alone, while I remained, 
in order not to lose the particular luckless claim we hap- 
pened to be working in, and out of which we were always 
going to make our fortune. On the occasions of your 
visits you have executed a small commission for me, 
entailing but little trouble, but upon the successful result 
of which I set great store. It was merely to call at the 
Post-office, and ask for letters for Basil Whittingham. The 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


165 

answer was always the same : there were none. Every 
time you returned and said, ‘No letters for you, Basil,’ 
I suffered more than I can express. There was less light 
in the world, my heart grew old. I believe I did not 
betray myself; at all events, I took pains not to do so.” 

“I never knew till now, Basil,” said Chaytor falsely, 
and in a tone of false pity, “that you thought anything 
at all of not receiving letters. You certainly succeeded 
in making me believe that it did not matter one way or 
another.” 

“That is what I have grown into, a living hypocrite, 
as I have said. Why should I inflict my troubles upon 
you ? You have enough of your own, and I have never 
been free from the reproach that evil fortune attends you 
because you persist in remaining attached to me. But 
the honest truth is, I suffered much, and each time the 
answer was given there was an added pang to make my 
sufferings greater. I’ll tell you how it is with me, or rather 
how it was, for were you torn from me, were I pursuing 
my road of life alone, I should feel like a ghost walking 
through the world, cut off from love, cut off from sym- 
pathy. Not so many years ago — and yet it seems a life- 
time — it was very different. I know I loved my dear 
mother, and perhaps in a lesser degree, but still with a 
full-hearted love, I loved my father. You know the whole 
story of my life ; I cannot recall an incident of any impor- 
tance in my career in the old country and in others through 
which I travelled which I have omitted to tell you. Partly 
it was because you took so deep an interest in me, partly 
because it gratified me to dwell upon matters which gave 
me pleasure. Yes, although my shot was pretty well ex- 
pended when I left England for Australia, there is noth- 
ing in my history there which causes me regret. Until 
the death of my father everything looked fair for me. It 
was a good world, a bright world, with joyous possibili- 
ties in it, some of which might in the future be realized, 


1 66 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


I spent my fortune in paying my father’s debts, and though 
it alienated my uncle from me and ruined my prospects, 
never for one moment did I regret it. There was no merit 
due to me in doing what I did ; any man of right feeling 
would have done the same ; you would have been one of 
the first to do it. Well, I came out to the Colonies with 
a light heart and nearly empty pockets. I had my 
hardships — what mattered ? I was young, I was strong, 
I was hopeful, I believed in human goodness. So I went 
on my way till I came to Anthony Bidaud's plantation. 
There the sun burst forth in its most brilliant colors, and 
all my petty trials melted away. Had my nature been 
soured it would have been the same, I ‘think, for love is 
like the sun shining upon ice. I met a man and a friend 
in Anthony Bidaud ; we understood and esteemed each 
other. I met a little maid to whom my heart went out — 
you know whom I mean, little Annette. You never saw 
her, Chaytor. When she came to old Corrie’s hut on the 
day we left Gum Flat, after you snatched me from a cruel 
death and nursed me to strength, you were wandering in 
the woods, and did not join us till she had gone. If you 
had met her you might have some idea of the feelings I 
entertained towards her, for although she was but a child 
at the time, there was a peculiar attraction and sweetness 
about her which could not have failed to make an impres- 
sion upon you. You are acquainted with all that passed 
between me and Annette’s father, of the project he enter- 
tained of making me guardian to his little daughter, and 
of his strange and sudden death; and you are also 
acquainted with the unexpected appearance of Gilbert 
Bidaud upon the scene, and what afterwards transpired, 
to the day upon which he and his sister and Annette left 
the colony for Europe. The little maid promised faith- 
fully to write to me from Europe, and I gave her instruc- 
tions, which she could scarcely have forgotten, how to 
communicate with me. Her letters were to be directed 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


167 


to the Sydney Post-office, and she was to let me know 
how to communicate with her. Well, unreasonably or 
not, I fed upon the expectation of these promised letters, 
but they never came. We must have some link of affec- 
tion to hold on to in this world if life is worth living, and 
this was the link to which I clung. From old associations 
in England I was absolutely cut away, not one friend 
was left to me; and when I arrived at Anthony Bidaud’s 
plantation and made Annette my friend, I felt as if all the 
sweetness of life dwelt in her person. It was an exagge- 
rated view perhaps, but so it was. Since that time three 
years have passed, and she is as one dead to me, and I 
suppose I am as one dead to her. For some little while 
after she left I used to indulge in hopes of wealth, in hopes 
of striking a golden claim and becoming rich. Then I 
used to say to myself, I will go home and wait till An- 
nette is a woman, when I will take her from the hateful 
influence of Gilbert Bidaud, and — and — but, upon my 
honor, my thoughts got no farther than this ; my dreams 
and hopes were unformed beyond the point of proving 
myself her truest and best friend. But her silence has 
changed my nature, and I no longer indulge in hopes and 
dreams, I no longer desire riches. The future is a blank : 
there is no brightness in it. If it happens that we are 
fortunate, that after all our ill luck we should strike a rich 
claim, I will give you my share of the gold freely, for I 
should have no use for it.” 

“I would not accept it, Basil,” saidChaytor ; “we will 
share and share alike. Have you no desire, then, to return 
to England ? ” 

“I shall never go back,” replied Basil. “My days 
will be ended in Australia.” 

“ Where you will one day meet with a woman who will 
drive all thoughts of Annette out of your head.” 

“ That can never be.” 

“ You think of her still, then ? ” 


i68 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


“As she was, not as she is. I live upon the spirit of 
the past.” 

He spoke not as a young man, but as one who had lived 
long years of sad and bitter experience. In this he was 
unconsciously doing himself a great wrong, for his heart 
was as tender as ever, and in reality he had intense faith 
in the goodness of human nature ; but the theme upon 
which he had been dilating always, when he reflected 
upon or spoke of it,' filled his soul with gloom, and so 
completely dominated him with its melancholy as to make 
him unintentionally false to his true self. 

“The question is,” said Chaytor, “whether it is worth 
while to brood upon such a little matter. The heart of a 
child — what is it ? A pulse with about as much meaning 
in it as the heart of an animal. There is no sincerity in 
it. I have no doubt you would be amazed if you were to 
know Annette as she is now, almost a woman, moulded 
after her uncle’s teaching, and therefore repulsive in nature 
as he was. You are wise in your resolve to make no 
attempt to shatter an ideal. I have suffered myself in love 
and friendship, and I know better than you how little 
dependence is to be placed in woman. Let us get back 
to the claim. We’ll not give it up till we’ve proved it 
quite worthless.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Had Basil been acquainted with the extent of Newman 
Chaytor’s baseness and villainy he would have been con- 
founded by the revelation. But, unhappily for himself, he 
was in entire ignorance of it, and it was out of the chivalry 
of his nature that he placed Chaytor on an eminence, in 
the way of human goodness, to which few persons can 
lay claim. But Basil was a man who formed ideals ; it 
was a necessity of his existence, and it is such men who 


BASH’ AND ANNETTE. 


169 

in their course through life are the most deeply wounded. 

Chaytor’s visits to Sydney were not upon business of 
his own, he had none to take him there ; they were simply 
and solely made for the purpose of obtaining the letters 
which arrived for Basil from England, and any also which 
might arrive for himself ; but these latter were of second- 
ary importance. In his inquiries at the Post-office he was 
always furnished with an order signed “Basil Whitting- 
ham” (of which he was the forger) to deliver to bearer any 
letters in that name. Thus he was armed to meet a possi- 
ble difficulty, although it would have been easy enough 
to obtain Bisil’s letters without such order. But as he had 
frequently observed, he was a man who never threw 
away a chance. 

As a matter of fact, he received letters both for himself 
and Basil, which he kept carefully concealed in an inner 
pocket. He had become a man of method in the crooked 
paths he was pursuing, and these letters, before being 
packed away, were placed in a wrapper, securely sealed, 
with written directions outside to the effect that, if any- 
thing happened to him and they fell into the hands of 
another person, they should be immediately burnt. This 
insured their destruction in the event of their falling into 
the hands of Basil, for Chaytor had implicit faith in his 
comrade’s quixotism and chivalry, at which he laughed 
in his sleeve. 

It has already been stated that Chaytor had made himself 
a master of the peculiarities of Basil’s handwriting. Hav- 
ing served his apprenticeship in his disgraceful career in 
England he could now produce an imitation of Basil’s 
hand so perfect as to deceive the most skilful of experts, 
who often in genuine writing make mistakes which should, 
but do not, confound them. Shortly after Annette and her 
uncle and aunt had taken their departure from Australia 
he wrote to Basil’s uncle in England. It is not necessary 
to reproduce the letter ; sufficient to say that it was 


70 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


chatty and agreeable, that it recalled reminiscences which 
could not but be pleasant to the old gentleman, that it 
abounded in affectionate allusions, and wound up with 
the expression of a hope that Mr. Bartholomew Whitting- 
ham would live till he was a hundred in health and hap- 
piness. There was not a word in the letter which could 
be construed into the begging of a favor ; it was all 
gratitude and affection ; and the writer asked whether 
there was any special thing in Australia which Mr. Bartho- 
lomew Whittingham would like to have. “ Nothing would 
give me greater pleasure,” said the wily correspondent, 
“than to obtain and send it to you in memory of dear old 
times. I will hunt the emu for you ; I will even send 
you home a kangaroo. God bless you, my dear uncle ! 
I have been a foolish fellow I know, but what is done 
cannot be undone, and I have only myself to blame. 
There, I did not intend to make the most distant allusion 
to anything in the past that has offended you, but it 
slipped out, and I can only ask your forgiveness.” In a 
postscript the writer said that his address was the Post- 
office, Sydney, not, he observed, that he expected Mr. 
Bartholomew Whittingham to write to him or answer his 
letter, but there was no harm in mentioning it. It was 
just such a letter as would delight an old gentleman who 
had in his heart of hearts a warm regard for the young 
fellow whose conduct had displeased him. Chaytor had 
some real ability in him, which, developed in a straight 
way, would have met with its reward ; but there are men 
who cannot walk the straight paths, and Chaytor was one 
of these. 

^ Two months afterwards, before any answer could have 
reached him, Chaytor wrote a second letter, as bright and 
chatty as the first, brimful of anecdote and story, and this 
he dispatched, curious as to the result of his arrows. They 
hit the mark right in the bull's-eye, but Chaytor was not 
quite aware of this. However, he was satisfied some 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


171 

time afterwards at receiving- a brief note from a firm of 
lawyers — not from Messrs. Rivington, Sons, and Riving- 
ton, to whom he had been articled, but from another firm, 
and for this he was thankful — which said that Mr. Bar- 
tholomew Whittingham had received his nephew’s letter, 
and was glad to learn that he was in good health and 
spirits. That was all, but it was enough for Chaytor. In 
the first place it proved that his handwriting was perfect 
and the circumstances he spoke of correct. In the second 
place it proved that Basil's uncle had a soft spot left for 
him and that the writer had touched it. In the third 
place it proved that his letters were welcome, and that 
others would be acceptable. 

“A good commencement,” thought Chaytor. “I have 
but to play my cards boldly, and the old fool’s forty- 
thousand pounds will be mine. What a slice of luck for 
me that Rivington, Sons, and Rivington no longer tran- 
sact his business ! At a distance I could deceive them. 
At close quarters their suspicions might be excited, al- 
though I would chance even that, if there were no other 
way. I wonder how long the old miser will live. I am 
not anxious that he should die yet ; things are not ripe ; 
there is Basil to get rid of.” He was ready, and resolved 
for any desperate expedient to compass his ends, and he 
kept not only the letters he received, but copies of the 
•letters he sent, for future guidance, if needed. Be sure 
that he continued to write, and that he made not the 
slightest reference to any hope of becoming the old gen- 
tleman’s heir, or of being reinstated in his affections. It 
is strange how a man’s intellect and intelligence are 
sharpened when he is following a congenial occupation. 
Machiavelli himself could not have excelled Newman 
Chaytor in the execution of the villainous scheme he was 
bent upon carrying out. He became even a fine judge 
of character, and not a word he wrote was malapropos. 
Let it be stated that, despite the risk he was running, he 


172 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


derived genuine pleasure from the plot he had devised. 
He thought himself, with justice, a very clever fellow ; 
if all went on in England as he hoped it would, he had no 
fear as to being able to silence or get rid of Basil on the 
Australian side of the world. He would be a dolt indeed 
if he could not remove a man so weak and trustful as 
Basil from his path. He had other letters from Mr. Bar- 
tholomew Whittingham’s lawyers, and he knew, from a 
growing cordiality in their tone (a sentiment in which 
lawyers never of their own prompting indulge in their 
business transactions), that they were dictated by the 
old gentleman himself. His interpretation of Basil’s 
uncle not writing in his own person was that he had made 
up his mind not to have any direct personal communica- 
tion with his nephew, and that being of an obstinate dis- 
position, he was not going to break his resolution. “ For 
all that,” thought Chaytor, “I will have his money. I’ll 
take an even bet that he has either not destroyed his old 
will, or that he has made a new one, making Basil his 
heir. Newman Chaytor, there are not many who can 
beat you.” 

He received other letters as well from other persons — 
from his old mother, addressed to himself, and from An- 
nette, addressed to Basil. Certainly when he went to 
Sydney his hands were full, and he had enough to do. 
He did not grudge the labor. He saw in the distance the 
pleasures of life awaiting him, and it is a fact that in time 
he came to believe that they were his to enjoy and that 
Basil had no rightful claim to them. It was he, New- 
man Chaytor, who had schemed for them, who was work- 
ing for them. What was Basil doing? Nothing. Standing 
idly by, without making an effort to come into his own. 
/“This is the way men get on,” said Chaytor to himself, 
surveying with pride the letter he had just finished to 
Basil’s uncle, “ and I mean to get on. Why, the trouble 
of writing this letter alone is worth a thousand pounds. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


173 

And what is the risk worth, I should like to know ? I 
am earning double the money I shall get." 

The letters of his old mother to himself were less fre- 
quent — not more than one every nine or ten months. 
They always commenced, “My dearly beloved son," 
and they plunged at once into a description of the difficul- 
ties with which she and her poor husband were battling. 
Her first letter gave him a piece of news which caused 
him great joy. It informed him that a certain bill which 
Chaytor had left behind him, dishonored, had been 
bought by his father, at the sacrifice of some of the doubt- 
ful securities which he had saved from the wreck of his 
fortune. “You can come home with safety now, my 
dear son," wrote the unhappy old woman. “Well, that 
is a good hearing," mused Newman Chaytor; “I was 
always afraid of that bill ; it might have turned up against 
me at any moment, but now it is disposed of, and I 
am safe. So, the old man still had something left worth 
money all the time he was preaching poverty to me. 
Such duplicity is disgusting. He owes me a lot for fright- 
ening me out of the country as he did. And here is the 
old woman going on with the preaching about hard times 
and poverty. Such selfishness is wicked, upon my soul 
it is." It was true that his mother’s letters ran princi- 
pally on the same theme. They had not a penny ; they 
lived in one room ; their rent was behindhand ; her hus- 
band was more feeble than ever ; they often went with- 
out food, for both she and he were determined to starve 
rather than appeal to the parish. Could not her dear son 
send them a trifle, if it was only a few shillings, to help 
them fight the battle which was drawing to its close ? 
She hoped he would forgive her for asking him, but times 
were so hard, and the winter was very severe. They 
had had no fire for two days, and the landlady said if they 
could not pay the last two weeks’ rent that they would 
have to turn out. “Try, my dear boy, try, for the sake 


174 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


of the mother who bore you, and who would sell her 
heart's blood for you, if there was a market for it. " 

These letters annoyed Chaytor, and he thought it horri- 
bly hard that his mother should write them. “ It is a try 
on,” he thought ; “ the old man has put her up to it. I 
ought to know the ins and outs of such transparent tricks. 
‘Now, write this,' says the old man; ‘now write that. 
We must manage to screw something out of him ; work 
upon his feelings, mother.’ That’s the way it goes. I’ll 
bet anything they’ve got a smoking dinner on the table 
all the time, but Newman’s at a distance, and can't see it. 
Oh, no, I can’t see anything ; a baby might impose upon 
me.” He never thought of the night he saw his mother 
begging in the roadway with a box of matches in her 
hands. Some men are gifted with the power of shutting 
out inconvenient memories, as there are others who never, 
never lose sight of a kindness they have received or a 
debt that is justly due. Long before this the reader has 
discovered to which class Chaytor belonged. 

Nevertheless he replied to the letters, cantingly regretting 
that he w*as unable to send his dear old mother the smallest 
remittance to help her on in her struggles. “ How is it 
possible,” he wrote, “ when I am myself starving? It is 
months since I have had a full meal, and I have had to 
work sixteen hours a day breaking stones on the road 
for a piece of dry bread. The hardships I have endured, 
and am still enduring, are frightful. This is a horrible 
place for a gentleman to live in. I should not have been 
here if father had not driven me away. It almost drives 
me mad to think that if he had not been so hard to me, if 
he had allowed me to stop at home and manage his 
affairs, I could have pulled them straight, and that we 
should all of us be living now in comfort and plenty in the 
only country in the world where a man can enjoy his days. 
You have no idea what kind of place this colony is. Men 
die like lambs in the snow, and the sufferings they endure 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


*75 

are shocking to contemplate. I do not suppose I shall 
live to write you another letter, but if you can manage to 
send me a few pounds it may arrive just in time to save 
me.” And so on, and so on. He took a keen delight 
in the duplicities he was practising, and he would read 
his letters over with a feeling of pride and exultation in 
his cleverness. “How many men are there in the world, ” 
he would ask himself, “ who could write such a letter as 
this ? Not many. Upon my word I'm wasted in this hole 
and corner. But there’s by-and-by to come : when I get 
hold of that forty thousand pounds I’ll have my revenge. 
No galley-slave ever worked harder than I am working 
for a future I mean to enjoy. ” That may have been true 
enough, but the work of a galley-slave was honest labor 
in comparison with that to which Newman Chaytor was 
bending all his energies. 

Lastly, there were the letters Annette wrote to Basil. 
They arrived at intervals of about four months, so that 
Chaytor was in •possession of seven or eight of them. 

Proceeding as they did from a pure and beautiful nature, 
these letters, had Basil received them, would have been 
like wine to him, would have comforted and strengthened 
him through the hardest misfortunes and troubles, would 
have kept the sun shining upon him in the midst of the 
bitterest storms. He would have continued to work with 
gladness and hope instead of with indifference. It would 
have made the future a bright goal to which his eyes would 
ever have been turned with joy. Evidences of kindness 
and sympathy, still more, evidences of unselfish affection 
and love, are like the dew to the flower. They keep the 
heart fresh, they keep its windows ever open to the light. 
But of this blessing Basil was robbed by the machinations 
of a scoundrel: hence, there was no sweetness in his 
labor, no hope for him in the future. So much to heart 
did Basil take Annette’s silence that, had his nature been 
inclined to evil instead of good, mischief to others would 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


I 7 6 

probably have ensued, but as it was he was the only suf- 
ferer. In his utterances, when he was drawn to speak of 
the shock he had received, he was apt to exaggerate mat- 
ters and to present himself in the worst light ; b.ut there 
had fallen to his share an inheritance of moral goodness 
which rendered it impossible for him to become a back- 
slider from the paths of rectitude and honor. Except that 
he was unhappy in himself, and that Annette’s silence took 
the salt out of his days, he was as he ever was, straight- 
forward in his dealings and gentle and charitable towards 
his fellow-creatures. 

“ My dear, dear Basil” (thus ran Annette’s first letter, 
written about five months after their last meeting in the 
Australian woods), “ I have tried ever so hard to write 
to you before, but have not been able to, because of uncle 
and aunt. I was afraid if they found out I was writing 
to you that they would take the letter away or do some- 
thing to prevent it reaching you, and 1 wanted, too, to 
tell you how you could write to me, but have never been 
able till now. You will be glad to hear that if you write 
and address your letters exactly as I tell you, I am almost 
sure of receiving them. But first I must say something 
about myself and how I am. Uncle and aunt are not un- 
kind to me, but they are not kind. They do leave me to 
myself a good deal, but I know I am being watched all the 
time. I don’t mind that so much, but what I do miss is 
my dear father’s voice and yours, and the birds and flowers 
and beautiful scenery I always lived among till I was taken 
away. I would not mind where I was if you were with 
me, for I love you truly, dear Basil, and can never, never 
forget you. That last time we were together by Mr. Corrie’s 
hut, how often and often do I think of it ! I go through 
everything that passed except the unkind words spoken by 
Uncle Gilbert, which I try not to remember. I must have 
a wonderful memory, for everything you said to me is as 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


177 


fresh now as though you had just spoken them. Yes, in- 
deed. Perhaps it is because when we were on board ship 
I used to sit on the deck, with my face turned to Australia 
— the captain always pointed out the exact direction — and 
go through it all in my mind over and over and over again 
till I got letter perfect. Shall I prove to you that it is really 
so ? Well, then, when I told you I was afraid I was turn- 
ing hard and bad since Uncle Gilbert came to the planta- 
tion — the dear old plantation ! — you chided me so gently 
and beautifully, and I promised never to forget your 
words, knowing they would keep me good. Then you 
said, ‘ Let them keep you brave as well, my dear. I 
promise to remember you always, to love you always, 
and perhaps when you are a woman — it will not be so 
long, Annette — we shall meet again/ Well, Basil dear, I 
am waiting for that time. I know it will not be yet, per- 
haps not for years, but I can wait patiently, and I shall 
always bear your words in mind. ‘ The stars of heaven 
are not brighter than the stars of hope and love we can 
keep shining in our hearts/ Do you remember, Basil? 
And then I asked you to kiss me, and said that was the 
seal and that I should go away happier. It comes to my 
mind sometimes that your words are like flowers that 
never die, and that grow sweeter and more beautiful every 
day. You could not have given me anything better to 
make me happy. But I must not keep going on like this 
or I shall not have time to tell you some things you ought 
to know. 

“ Well, then, Basil dear, we are not settled anywhere, 
and if you were to come home now (you call it home, I 
know, and so will I) you would not know where to find 
me unless you went to a place I will tell you of presently. 
First we came to London and stopped there a little while, 
then we went to Paris, then to Switzerland, and now we 
have come back to London, where we shall remain two or 
three weeks, and then go somewhere else, I don’t know 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


178 

where. Uncle Gilbert never tells me till the day before, 
when he says, ‘ We are going away to-morrow morning ; 
be ready/ So that by the time you receive this letter we 
shall be I don’t know where. Uncle Gilbert is very fond 
of theatres, but he has not taken me to one, because he 
says they are not proper places for girls. I dare say he is 
right, and I don’t know that I want to go, but aunt has 
been very dissatisfied about it, as she is as fond of thea- 
tres as Uncle Gilbert is. He used to go by himself, and 
aunt would stop with me to take care of me, but a little 
while ago, a day or two before we came back to London, 
they had a quarrel about it. They did not notice that I 
was in the room when they began, and when they found 
it out they stopped. But I think it is because of the quar- 
rel that when we were in London a young woman was 
engaged to travel with us and to look after me when uncle 
and aunt are away. I am very glad for a good many 
reasons. I am not very happy when they are with me, 
and I breathe more freely — or perhaps I think I do — when 
they are gone. The young woman they have engaged is 
kind and good-natured, and I have grown fond of her 
already, and she has grown fond of me, so we get along 
nicely together. Her name is Emily Crawford, and she 
has a mother who lives in Bournemouth, a place by the 
sea somewhere in England. Her mother is a poor woman, 
and that is why Emily is obliged to go to service, but she 
is not a common person, not at all, and she has a good 
heart. She can read and write very well, and she picks 
up things quicker than I can. Of course you want to know 
why I speak so much of Emily, when I might be writing 
about myself. Well, it is very, very important, and it is 
about myself I am speaking when I am speaking of her. 

“ Basil, dear, it does one good to have some one to talk 
to quite freely and to open one’s heart to. All the time 
I have been away, until this week, I have not had any 
person who would listen to me or who cared to speak of 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


J 

the happy years I spent on our dear plantation. When- 
ever I ventured to say a word about the past Uncle Gil- 
bert put a stop to it at once by saying, * There is no oc- 
casion to speak of it, you are living another life now. 
Forget it, and everybody connected with it.’ Forget it ! 
As if I could ! But 1 do not dare to disobey him. He is 
my guardian, and I must be obedient to him. Aunt is 
just the same, only she snaps me up when I say any- 
thing that displeases her, while uncle speaks softly, but 
he is as determined as she is although they do speak 
so differently. I do not know which way I dislike most 
— I think both. So one night this week when uncle and 
aunt were away, and I was reading and Emily was sew- 
ing, she said to me, * You have borne from Australia, 
haven’t you, Miss?’ Oh, how pleased I was! I ans- 
wered yes, and then we got talking about Australia, and I 
told her all about the plantation and the life we led there, 
and all sorts of things came rushing into my mind, and 
when I had told her a great deal I began to cry. It was 
then I found out Emily’s goodness, for then she was by 
my side wiping my tears away and almost crying with me, 
and that is how we have become friends. After that I felt 
that I could speak freely to her, and I spoke about you, 
of course. She promised not to say a word to uncle or 
aunt, and I know I can trust her. Now, Basil dear, she 
has told me how you can write to me and how I can 
obtain your letters without uncle or aunt knowing any- 
thing about it. Emily writes home to her mother and 
receives letters from her. If you will write and address 
your letters to the care of Mrs. Crawford, 14 Lomax Road, 
Bournemouth, England, Mrs. Crawford will enclose them 
to Emily, who will give them to me. Mrs. Crawford will 
always know where Emily is while she remains with me, 
which will be as long as she is allowed, Emily says, and 
I am sure to get your letters. I feel quite happy when I 
think that you will write to me, telling all about yourself. 


i8o 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


You said I was certain to make friends in the new country 
I was going to, through whom we should be able to cor- 
respond, and although I would sooner do it through uncle 
and aunt (but there is no possibility of that, because they 
do not like you), I feel there is nothing very wrong in our 
writing to each other in the way Emily proposes. So that 
is all, and you will know what to do. I can hardly restrain 
my impatience, but it is something very sweet to look 
forward to. 

“I hope you found the locket with the portrait of my 
dear mother in it. When we see each other I shall expect 
you to show it to me. If you see Mr, Corrie tell him 
that the magpie is quite well, and that I can teach him 
to say almost anything. Both uncle and aunt have 
grumbled a good deal about the bird, and would like me to 
get rid of it, but that is the one thing — the only thing — 
that I have gone against them in. ‘ I will be obedient 
in everything else/ I said, ‘ but I must keep my bird. You 
promised me/ So they have yielded, and I have my way 
in this at all events. It means a great deal to me because 
I take care it shall not forget your name. I keep it in 
my own room, where they see very little of it, and it is 
only when we are travelling that it is a trouble to them. 

‘‘Now I must leave off, Basil dear. With all my love, 
and hoping with all my heart that we shall see each 
other when I am a little older, — I remain, forever and 
ever, your loving friend. Annette. ” 

This letter interested and amused Newman Chaytor. 
“She is a clever little puss,” he thought, “and will not 
be hard to impose upon, for all her cunning. I wonder, 
I wonder” — but what it was he wondered at did not take 
instant shape ; it required some time to think out. He 
replied to the letter, addressing Annette as she directed. 
Although he knew it was not likely that Annette 
could be very familiar with Basil’s handwriting, he was 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


181 


as careful in imitating: it as he was in his letters to Basil’s 
uncle ; and as in the case of his letters to that old gentle- 
man, he kept a copy of the letters he wrote to Annette. 
He was very careful in the composition of his correspon- 
dence with the young girl. He fell into the sentimental 
mood, and smiled to think that the sentiments he expressed 
to Annette were just those which would occur to Basil if 
he sat down to write to her. “Basil would be proud of 
me,’’ he said, “ if he read this letter. It is really saving 
him a world of trouble, and he ought to be grateful to me 
if it ever comes to his knowledge — which it never shall. 
I will see to that.” During the first year of the progress 
of the vile plot the full sense of the dangerous net he was 
weaving for himself did not occur to him, and indeed it 
was only by degrees that he became keenly conscious of 
the peril attending its discovery. It made him serious at 
first, but at the same time more fixed in his resolve to 
carry it out to the bitter end. Whatever it was necessary 
to do he would do ruthlessly. Everything must give 
way to secure his own safety, to insure the life of ease and 
luxury he hoped to enjoy, if all went well. 

If all went well ! What kind of sophistry must that 
man use who, to compass his ends, deems all means 
justifiable, without considering the misery he is ready to 
inflict upon others in the pursuit upon which he is en- 
gaged? There lies upon some men’s natures a crust of 
selfishness so cruel that it becomes in their eyes a light 
matter to transgress all laws human and divine. They 
are blinded by a moral obliquity, and think not of the 
hour when the veil shall be torn from their eyes, and 
when the punishment which surely waits upon crime is 
meted out to them. 

Annette’s first letter to Basil is a fair example of those 
which followed, except that the progress of time seemed 
to deepen the attachment she bore for him. In one letter 
she sent a photograph of herself, and Newman Chaytor’s 


182 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


heart beat high as he gazed upon it. Annette was grow- 
ing into a very lovely womanhood : beautiful, sweet, 
and gracious was her face ; an angelic tenderness dwelt 
in her eyes. 

“And this is meant for Basil, ” said Chaytor, in his 
solitude : and then exclaimed, as he contemplated the 
enchanting picture, “ No ! For me — for me ! ” 


CHAPTER XX. 

The claim they were working proved very little richer 
than others they had taken up. They made certainly a 
few shillings a week more than was absolutely necessary 
to keep them in food and tobacco, and these few shillings 
were carefully husbanded by Chaytor, who was the treas- 
urer of the partnership. Their departure was hastened 
by a meeting which did not afford Chaytor unalloyed 
pleasure. As he and Basil sat at the door of their canvas 
tent one summer night, who should stroll up to them but 
old Corrie. 

“ Here you are, then,” cried the honest fellow. 

“Why, Corrie ! ” exclaimed Basil, jumping to his feet, 
and holding out his hands. 

“Master Basil,” said old Corrie, grasping them cor- 
dially, “ I am more than glad to see you. I was passing 
through, and hearing your tent was somewhere in this 
direction, I made up my mind to hunt you up. Well, 
well, w^ll ! ” 

“Here’s my mate,” said Basil, motioning to Chaytor, 
“ you remember him.” 

“ Oh yes,” said old Corrie, nodding at Chaytor. “So 
you’ve been together all this time. What luck have you 
had ? ” 

‘ ‘ Bad luck, ” answered Chaytor. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


183 


“ Sorry to hear it. Never struck a rich patch, eh ? ” 

“ Never said Chaytor. “And you ? ” 

“I can’t complain. To tell you the truth, I've made 
my pile.” 

“You have!” cried Chaytor, with a furious envy in 
his voice. 

“ I have. You made a mistake when you refused to 
go mates with me; I could have shown you a trick 
or two. However, that’s past : what’s ended can’t be 
mended.” 

“What are you going to do now? ’’ 

“ Haven’t quite made up my mind. Think of going to 
Sydney for a spree ; perhaps to Melbourne for another ; 
perhaps shall give up that idea, and make tracks for old 
England. I’ve got enough to live upon if I like to take 
care of it. Well, Master Basil, I wish you had better 
news to give me. Have you heard from the old country? 
No ? ” This was in response to Basil’s shake of the head. 
“ Why, I thought the little lady promised to write to you.” 

“She did promise, but I have not heard for all that.” 

“Out of sight, out of mind,” observed Chaytor, in- 
wardly discomposed at the turn the conversation had 
taken. 

Old Corrie gave him a sour look. “ I’ll not believe that 
of the little lady. The most likely reason is that she has 
been prevented by that old fox her uncle. Her silence 
must have grieved you, Master Basil.” Basil nodded. 
“ I know how your heart was set upon her.” 

“ Don’t let’s talk about it,” said Basil, “it is the way 
of the world.” 

“ That may be,” said old Corrie, regarding Basil 
attentively, “but I’d have staked my life that it wasn’t 
the way of the little lady. What has come over you ? 
You’re changed. You were always brimming over with 
life and spirits, and now you’re as melancholy as a black 


crow. 


84 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


“ I’m falling into the sere and yellow, ” said Basil, with 
a melancholy smile. 

“I can only guess at what you mean. You’re getting 
old. Why, man alive, there’s a good five-and-twenty 
years between you and me, and I don't consider myself 
falling into the what-do-you-call-’em ! Pluck up, Master 
Basil. Here, let’s have a little chat aside.” 

Chaytor gave Basil a look which meant, as plain as 
words could speak it, “ Are you going to have secret con- 
versations away from me after all the years we’ve been 
together, after all I’ve done for you?” 

4 ‘ Corrie, ” said Basil, laying one hand on old Corrie’s 
arm and the other on Chaytor’s, “if you’ve anything to 
say to me I should like you to say it before Chaytor. 
There’s nothing I would wish to hide from him. He’s 
been the truest friend to me a man ever had, and I owe 
him more than I can ever repay.” 

“Nonsense, Basil,” said Chaytor with magnanimous 
humility ; “don’t say anything about it.” 

“ But it ought to be said, and I should be the ungrate- 
fullest fellow living if I ever missed an opportunity of 
acknowledging it. I owe you something too, Corrie. 
There’s that mare of yours I borrowed and lost.” 

“Shut up,” growled old Corrie, “if you want us to 
part friends. I’ve never given the mare a thought, and 
as for paying me for it, well, you can’t, and there’s an 
end of it. I’ll say before your mate what is in my mind : 
You’re a gentleman, Master Basil, and here you are wast- 
ing your time and your years to no purpose. England is 
the proper place for you. ” Chaytor caught his breath, 
and neither Basil nor old Corrie could have interpreted 
this exhibition of emotion aright ; but Basil, who thought 
he understood it, smiled gently at Chaytor, as much as to 
say, “ Don’t fear ; I am not going to desert you.” Old 
Corrie, who had paused, took up his words : “England is 
the proper place for you. Say the word, and we’ll go 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


185 

together to Sydney and take two passages for home. 
There you can hunt up your old friends, and you’ll be a 
man once more. Come now, say, ‘Yes, Corrie,’ and put 
me under an obligation to you for life.” 

‘ ‘ I can’t say yes, Corrie, but I’m truly obliged to you 
for your kind offer. Even if I wished to break my con- 
nection with Chaytor — which I don’t ; it’s for him to put 
an end to our partnership, not for me — don’t you see that 
it would be impossible for me to lay myself under an 
obligation to you ? ” 

“No, I don’t see it,” growled old Corrie. 

“Then, again, Corrie,- what inducement have I to 
return to England ? ” 

“There’s little lady,” interrupted old Corrie. 

“She has forgotten me,” said Basil sadly. What bush 
ness have I to thrust myself upon her? If she desired to 
continue a friendship which was as precious to me as my 
heart’s blood — yes, I don’t mind confessing it ; there may 
be weakness, but there is no shame in it — would she not 
have written to me? She would, if it was only one line. 
It is true that her uncle may be jealously guarding and 
watching her — there was no love lost between us — but in 
these three years that have passed since the last day we 
saw each other, it is not possible to think that she could 
not have contrived once to put in the post a bit of paper 
with only the words, ‘I have not forgotten you, Basil.’ 
Who and what am I that I should cross the road she is 
traversing for the purpose of bringing a reminiscence to 
her mind that she chooses not to remember? There 
would not be much manliness in that. Besides, it’s a hun- 
dred chances to one that she is not in England at all. It 
is my belief she is living in her father’s native country, 
Switzerland, where, surrounded by new scenes and new 
companions, I hope she is happy. Thank you again, 
Corrie ; I cannot accept your offer. ” 

“All right,” said Corrie, with disappointment in his 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


1 86 

face and voice ; “you ought to know your own mind, 
though I make bold to say I don’t believe you’ve said 
what is in your heart. Well, there’s an end of it. I’m 
off early in the morning. Good-bye, Master Basil.” 

“Good-bye, Corrie, and good-luck to you.” 

“ Good luck to you, better than you’ve had, in more 
ways than one.” 

“Good-bye, Mr. Corrie,” said Chaytor. 

Old Corrie could scarcely refuse the hand that Chaytor 
held out to him, but the grasp he gave it was very 
different from the grasp he gave Basil’s. Before he turned 
to leave the ill-assorted comrades he did something which 
escaped the eyes of Basil, but not those of Chaytor. He 
furtively dropped, quite close to Basil’s feet, a round 
wooden matchbox, which, emptied of matches, gold- 
diggers frequently used to fill with loose gold. Unob- 
served by old Corrie, Chaytor put his foot on the box and 
slipped it to the rear of himself. This was done while 
old Corrie was turning to go. Basil was genuinely sorry 
to see the last of his friend. Both the unexpected meeting 
and the leave-taking had a touch of sadness in them which 
deeply affected him, and he gazed with regret after the 
vanishing form of the man who had offered to serve him. 
This gave Chaytor an opportunity of slyly picking up the 
match-box ; it was weighty, and Chaytor knew that it was 
filled with gold. “ A bit of luck,” he thought, as he put 
the box in his pocket, “and a narrow escape as well.” 
He felt like a man sitting on a mine which a stray match 
might fire at any moment. 

“Basil,” he said, when old Corrie was out of sight, 
“we will strike our tent to-morrow, and go prospecting. 
I have a likely spot in my mind.” 

“Very well,” said Basil listlessly. “How about 
money ? Can \ye manage to get along ? ” 

“Oh, yes, we can manage.” 

Early in the morning the pegs which fastened the tent 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


187 

were dug out of the ground, the tent was rolled up and 
tied, and with heavy swags of canvas, blankets, tools, 
and utensils conveniently disposed about their persons, 
Basil and Chaytor set their faces to the south. They 
walked for two days, camping out at night, and halted at 
length on the banks of a river, the waters of which were 
low. In the winter the floods rolling down from the 
adjacent ranges made the river a torrent, covering banks 
which now were bare. These banks were of fine sand, 
and rising on each side for a distance of some thousands 
of yards were shelving mountains studded with quartz. 
Some eighteen months ago Basil and Chaytor had passed 
the place on their way to a new rush, and Chaytor 
thought it a likely place in which to find gold. They 
were now quite alone, not a living soul was within a 
dozen miles of them. They had reached the spot secretly, 
and their movements were unknown to any but them- 
selves. Their nearest neighbors were on a cattle station 
some twelve or thirteen miles away. 

“ I have had an idea,” said Chaytor, throwing the swag 
ofT his shoulders, an example which Basil followed, “for 
a long time past that somewhere about here gold was 
to be found. My plan is to prospect the place well, 
without anyone being the wiser. Who knows? We may 
discover a new gold-field, and make our fortunes before 
we are tracked. , Let us camp here, and try. We can't 
do much worse than we’ve done already.” 

“I’m agreeable to anything you propose,” said Basil. 
“ Let us camp here by all means.” 

“The great thing is, that nobody must be let into the 
secret. If we are discovered, ‘ Rush, O ! ’ will be the 
cry, and we shall be overrun before we can say Jack 
Robinson.” 

“You have only to say what you wish, Chaytor. You 
have the cleverer head of the two. I hope for your sake 
we shall be successful, ” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


1 88 

“ You don’t much care for your own.” 

“ Not much.” 

“You’ll sing to another tune when we do succeed. It’s 
wonderful how the possession of a lot of money alters 
one’s view.” 

“ I’ll wait till I get it,” said Basil sagely. 

“The river runs low at this season, and there’s no 
reason in the world why the sand banks shouldn’t hold 
gold.” 

“They will hold it if it’s there, ’’said Basil, with a smile. 

“We’ll try the banks first because they are the easiest, 
and if we don’t get gold in sufficient quantities there we'll 
try higher up the range. It’s studded with quartz, and it 
looks the right sort. We’ll put our tent up now, and in 
the morning we’ll commence work — or rather you will 
commence work while I am away.” 

“ Where are you going to ? ” 

“There’s grub to look after. We can’t do without meat 
and flour. All we’ve got to live on at present is a tin of 
sardines, about half a pint of brandy, a little tea, and 
a couple of handfuls of biscuits. Now, I call that a coin- 
cidence. ” 

“ In what respect ? ” 

“Do you forget,” said Chaytor reproachfully, “the 
first night you came to Gum Flat? I gave you then pretty 
well all I had in the world in the shape of provisions, 
some biscuits, some sardines, and a flask of brandy.” 

“You did, old fellow, and that is the sum total of our 
provisions this evening . ’’ He shook Chaytor’s hand 
warmly. “ Don’t think me ungrateful, Chaytor, because 
I don’t profess much. Old Corrie said I was changed, 
and I suppose I must be ; but I shall never be so 
changed as to be unmindful of the way you’ve stuck 
to me. Yes, it is a coincidence. But, go on. What do 
you mean to do about grub, for I see you’ve something 
in your mind ? ” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


189 

“There’s only one thing- to do,” said Chaytor. “I 
must go to the cattle station to-night, get there early in 
the morning, and buy mutton and flour. I shall have to 
look out sharp that I’m not followed when I make my 
way back again, but I think I can manage it. I’ve done 
more difficult jobs than that.” 

“And you will be tramping the bush,” said Basil, 
“ while I remain at my ease here. Why can’t I go instead 
of you ? ” 

“ Because,” replied Chaytor, in a tone of affectionate 
insistence, “ as you have already confessed, I am the 
cleverer of the two, and because I have an idea, if we lose 
this chance, that we shall never get another. I don’t 
want you to be seen, Basil, that’s the plain truth of the 
matter. You’re not up to the tricks of the men we meet. 
Now, I am sly and cunning — ” 

“You?” interrupted Basil. “You are the soul of 
candor and honesty, Chaytor. No one else should say 
that of you while I stood by.” 

“ I don’t mean exactly what I said, Basil, but I am sure 
I can do the job more neatly than you could. As to the 
tramp through the bush I think nothing of it, so let it be 
as I say.” 

Basil making no further objection, the tent was put up 
and a trench dug around to carry the rain away. Then a 
camp fire was made, and the water for tea boiled in 
a tin billy, after which they finished the biscuits and 
sardines. 

“You will have to hold out till I come back,” said 
Chaytor. “ As I need not start till past midnight, I’ll turn 
in for an hour or two.” 

Shortly afterwards the comrades were wrapt in slumber, 
and the man with the evil conscience slept the sounder of 
the two. A little after midnight he rose, and, without 
disturbing Basil, started for the cattle station. It was a 
warm, starlit night, and he pondered upon matters as he 


190 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


made his way through the bush. Indeed, during the past 
two days he had thought deeply of the situation in which 
he was placed. Old Corrie’s proposition to take Basil to 
England had greatly alarmed him, and had opened his 
eyes more clearly to its gravity. It was this which had 
caused him to hurry Basil away from the vicinity of old 
Corrie, for it was quite likely that Corrie would make 
another attempt to prevail upon Basil before he took his 
departure, and the second time Basil might yield. At all 
hazards this must be prevented ; step by step he had 
descended the abyss of crime, and it was too late for him 
now to turn back. In entering upon an evil enterprise 
men seldom see the cost at which success must be pur- 
chased ; it is only when they are face to face with the 
consequences that they tremble at their own danger. 

By daybreak Chaytor was at the cattle station and had 
made his purchases ; by noon he had rejoined Basil. His 
purchases at the station had attracted no attention ; it was 
a common enough proceeding, and now they had food 
for a week. Fifteen miles beyond the cattle station was a 
small township where they could also obtain supplies ; a 
pilgrimage once a week to station or township would 
keep them going. In the township such gold as they 
obtained and wished to dispose of could also be turned 
into money. Thus, although they were quite alone, they 
were within hail of all that was necessary. 

Shortly after Chaytor’s return they set to work 011 the 
banks of the river. Basil showed his mate some pieces of 
quartz with fair-sized specks of gold in them, but Chaytor 
decided to try the river first, alluvial digging being so 
much easier. They found gold in the sand, and sufficient 
to pay, but not sufficient to satisfy Chaytor’s cupidity. 
The result of a week’s labor was between two and three 
ounces. 

“This is better than we have done yet,” said Basil. 

“It is only the washings from the hills,” said Chaytor, 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


i 9 r 

“ and at any unexpected moment a flood of rain would 
swamp us. There are too many trees about to please 
me ; wood draws water from the clouds. If we don’t do 
better than this by the end of next week we'll mark out 
a claim on the range yonder, where the blue .slate peeps 
out of the quartz.” 

Another journey had to be made for food, and this time 
Chaytor went to the township, where he obtained what 
he required and sold exactly seven pennyweights of gold. 
He put on an appearance of great aqxiety while the gold 
was being weighed, and sighed when the weight was an- 
nounced. This was to throw the storekeeper off the scent ; 
any considerable quantity of gold disposed of proudly 
would have excited suspicion of a Tom Tiddler's ground 
somewhere near, and Chaytor, had he so behaved, would 
certainly have been shadowed by men who were ever 
watchful for signs of the discovery of rfnew goldfield. It 
was in Chaytor s power to sell some fourteen ounces of 
gold had he been so inclined, for the match-box which old 
Corrie had furtively dropped at Basil's feet, and which 
Chaytor had slyly picked up unknown to his mate, con- 
tained twelve ounces of the precious metal, but he knew 
better than to attempt it. There was a post-office in the 
township, from which he dispatched a letter to the Sydney 
office, requesting that any letters lying there for Basil 
Whittingham might be forwarded -on to him. He wrote 
and signed the order in Basil's name. He could not very 
well go to Sydney at present and fetch them ; there 
would be a risk in leaving Basil so long alone, for, there 
being no coaches running from the township, the journey 
to Sydney and back could not be accomplished in less 
than nine or ten days. Easier to obtain the letters from 
England, if any arrived, by the means he adopted, and it 
was the easiest of tasks to keep the affair from the knowl- 
edge of Basil, who never dreamed of asking at any post- 
office whether there were any letters for him. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


192 

They worked a second week on the river banks, at the 
end of which they had washed out over three ounces. 

“An improvement/’ remarked Basil. 

Chaytor shook his head discontentedly. 

“Let us mark off a prospectors claim up the hill,” he 
said. “We can always come back to the river.” 

This was done, and they commenced to sink. The 
difficulty they now encountered was the want of a wind- 
lass. Chaytor would not venture to purchase one in the 
township, whither he went regularly, being well aware 
that he could have done nothing that would more surely 
have drawn attention upon him. At odd times he bought 
some pieces of rope, which he and Basil spliced till they 
had a length of about eighty feet. This rope, properly 
secured, enabled them to descend and ascend the shaft, 
foot-holes in the sides assisting them. The labor of 
digging a shaft in *his manner was increased four-fold at 
least, but they could not be too cautious, Chaytor said. 
He remarked also that they seemed to be haunted by 
coincidences, and upon Basil asking for an explanation, 
reproached him for his bad memory. 

“ How many of us were there upon Gum Flat,” he said, 
“ after your horse was stolen ? Two. You and I alone. 
How many are there here? Two. You and I alone. 
When you fell down the shaft how did 1 get you up ? By 
means of a rope secured at the top. How do we get up 
and down this shaft ? By the same means. There was 
no windlass there ; there is no windlass here. Don’t you 
call these coincidences ? ” 

“Yes,” said Basil ; “it is very singular.” 

“ It would be very singular,” thought Chaytor, “if you 
were at the bottom of this shaft one of these fine days and 
never got out of it alive. In that case coincidence would 
not hold good.” 

He drew a mental picture of the scene : Basil helpless 
below, the rope lying loose on the top, and he sitting by 


Basil And Annette. . 


*93 

it, waiting to assure himself that the mate by whom he 
had dealt so foully could never rise in evidence against 
him. He saw this menial picture at the very moment 
that Basil, with his sad, earnest face, was in sight. 

In the shaft they were sinking they were following a 
thin vein of gold-bearing quartz which, luckily for them, 
was not devious in its bearings, but ran down perpen- 
dicularly. It was very narrow, not more than an inch in 
width, but the deeper they sank the richer it grew. The 
vein was more rubble than stone, and the stuff was easily 
pounded and washed. The first week they discovered it 
they obtained four ounces of gold, the second week seven, 
the third week twelve, the fourth and fifth weeks the 
same, then there was a jump to twenty ounces. They 
had reached a depth of forty odd feet, and not a living 
being but themselves had been seen near the spot. 

This lucky break in their fortunes gave Chaytor serious 
and discomforting food for thought. He was convinced 
that their better luck would continue for some time, and 
was almost sure that the thin vein they were following 
would lead them to a richer and wider reef. What would 
be the effect of wealth upon Basil? Would it alter his 
views? Would it turn his thoughts homewards? He be- 
came hot and cold when this last thought suggested itself, 
and that night he was visited in his sleep by a dream so 
startling that he jumped up in affright and sat in the dark 
trembling like a leaf in a strong wind. He dreamt that 
Basil had discovered his treachery, and had torn open his 
secret pocket in which he kept not only the letters from 
Annette and Basil’s uncle he had received from England, 
but the documents he had stolen from Basil on Gum Flat, 
and the locket which Annette had given to Basil at their 
last meeting. “You monster ! ” Basil had cried. “You 
have ruined my life and shall pay the penalty ! ” It was 
at this point that Chaytor awoke, trembling and in great 
fear. Presently, when the pulses of his heart beat more 

i3 


194 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


regularly, he heard Basils soft breathing. He struck a 
match and, rising quietly, looked down upon his comrade. 
The young fellow was sleeping'calmly, with no thought 
of the evil genius standing over him. Convincing himself 
that his stolen treasures were safe, Chaytor crept back to 
his stretcher, but he had little more sleep that night. His 
sense of security was shaken ; the earth was trembling 
beneath his feet. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

When a man evilly inclined turns from the path of evil, 
it is generally because he fears for his own safety. He 
does not choose the straight road or relinquish a bad 
purpose from the awakening of the moral principle, but 
from a conviction that the deviation will best serve his 
own interests. In the initial stages of a bad scheme the 
prime mover seldom counts the cost ; it is only when he 
is deeply involved that the consequences of his evil-doing 
stare him in the face, and warn him to halt. True re- 
pentance is rare ; but there have been instances where a 
man, suddenly appalled by the enormity of his career of 
crime, conscientiously resolves to turn before it is too late, 
and to expiate, as far as lies in his power, for his mis- 
deeds. There is something of heroism in this, and the 
sinner may hope for forgiveness at the divine throne, if 
not from human hands. Of such heroism Newman 
Chaytor was not capable. If he wavered, it was purely 
from selfish reasons, and because he saw before him 
a path in which lay greater chances of safety to himself. 
That he did waver is true, and the more wholesome and 
more merciful course which suggested itself to him was 
due, not to conscientious motives, but to circumstances 
quite independent of his original design. On the day 
following his disturbing dream he and Basil struck a 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


195 

wonderfully rich patch in the claim they were working. 
The stuff which was raised to the surface was literally 
studded with gold, and by nightfall they had washed out 
fifty ounces. The excitements of a gold-digger’s life when 
fortune smiles upon him are all-absorbing. Marvellous 
possibilities dazzle and distort his mind ; delirious visions 
rise to his imagination. In the early days of the goldfields it 
was a belief with numbers of miners that, at some time or 
other, gold would be discovered in such quantities that it 
could be hewn out like coal. A favorite phrase was, “ VVe 
shall be able to cut it out with a cold chisel.” Of course 
every man hoped that this wonderful thing would happen 
to him. He held a chance in the lottery, and why should 
he not draw the grand prize which would astonish the 
world ? 

These possibilities flitted through Chay tor’s mind as 
he and Basil sat at the door of their tent, smoking their 
pipes after their day’s labor. The chairs they sat on 
were stumps of trees. Furniture they had none, inside 
their tent or out of it. For their beds they had gathered 
quantities of dry leaves, over which they spread a blanket, 
with another to roll themselves in. Rough living, but 
healthier than life in civilized cities. Early to bed and 
early to rise, plain food, moderate drinking, exercising 
their muscles for a dozen hours a day — all this was con- 
ducive to a healthy physical state. Their faces were 
embrowned, their limbs were hardened, their beards had 
grown long — they looked like men. This may be said 
of Chaytor as well as of Basil, for such play of expres- 
sion as would have revealed the cunning of his nature was 
hidden by his abundant hair. A stranger, observing them, 
would have been astonished at the likeness of one to the 
other, and could have formed no other conclusion thah 
that they were twin-born ; but no stranger had seen them 
thus, for it was only during their late seclusion that Chay- 
tor had copied Basil so exactly. Basil took but little note 


! 9 6 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 

of this resemblance, and if he referred to it at all it was 
in a manner so slight as to show that he attached no im- 
portance to it. But it was seldom absent from Chaytor s 
mind ; he had brooded constantly upon it, and had studied 
it as a lesson which, perfectly mastered, was to bring 
with it the rich reward for which he had schemed. 

“A good day’s work,” said Basil, holding out his hand 
for the tin dish which Chaytor held. 

This tin dish contained the gold which they had gathered 
since sunrise, and Chaytor was turning it over with his 
knife. The moisture had dried out of it, and the gold lay 
loose. Chaytor passed the dish to Basil, who, in his turn, 
played with the shining metal with somewhat more than 
usual interest. 

“Nearly as much,” said Chaytor, “ as we’ve got these 
last five weeks. It is a rare good day’s work — if only it 
will last.” 

“That’s the question,” said Basil; “I should like to 
weigh it.” 

They entered the tent, and weighed the gold in the gold 
scales, which form part of a miner’s working implements. 
It turned the fifty ounces. 

“ Honestly paid for,” said Basil, “ it represents a couple 
of hundred pounds. A hundred pounds each.” 

Chaytor merely nodded, and made no comment upon 
the remark, but it dwelt in his mind. Not so very long 
ago Basil had expressed indifference regarding their pos- 
session of gold, and had gone the length of saying that 
Chaytor might have his share, for all he cared for it. 
Now he expressed an interest in it, and reckoned their 
day’s work at “ a hundred pounds each.” That indicated 
that he looked upon half as his fair share. What did this 
'newly-awakened interest portend? With his instinctive 
cunning Chaytor felt that this was not a favorable time 
to open up the subject ; far better to let it work quietly 
until it came to a natural head, Besides, he was fever- 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


197 

ishly engrossed in the question he had suggested, whether 
the rich patch they had struck would last. Time alone 
could answer that question. They retired to their beds 
of dry leaves a little earlier than usual, and were at work 
in the morning with the rising of the sun. Basil worked 
chiefly at the bottom of the shaft, Chaytor at the top, and 
the honest man of this ill-assorted pair sent up two buckets 
of stuff before breakfast, which was even richer than 
that they had raised on the previous day. Basil climbed 
to earth’s surface hand-over-hand. 

“ He uses the rope like a cat/’ thought Chaytor. 

The two buckets of stuff were emptied into a tub. 

“Let us wash it out before breakfast,” said Basil. 

They went down to the river, carrying the tub between 
them. On the top of the auriferous soil were two tin 
basins, and, after puddling the tub well and letting the 
worthless refuse flow over the brim, they set to work, 
washing what remained in the basins, with that rotary 
motion in which gold-diggers are so skilful, and which 
enables them to get rid of the loosened earth, and keep 
the heavy precious metal at a safe angle in the bottom 
of the dish. It had hitherto been Basil’s practice to leave 
this delicate operation to Chaytor, but on this morning 
he took part in it, using one dish, while Chaytor used the 
other. Chaytor took note of every small circumstance ; 
nothing escaped him. 

“This is a new move of yours, Basil,” he said. 

“I am beginning to take a real interest in the work,” 
admitted Basil. “In a manner of speaking, it is waking 
me up.” 

“ Glad to hear it,” said Chaytor. “These two buckets 
are worth something. There's not less than twenty 
ounces.” 

There was more ; the stuff they had washed yielded 
twenty-three ounces, and the whole day's yield was 
worth four hundred pounds, 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


198 

“Nothing to complain of now, Chaytor,” observed 
Basil in the evening. 

“Nothing.” Basil was busy with paper and pencil. 
“What are you up to there? Figuring? ” 

“Yes,” replied Basil. “I am reckoning how much 
four hundred pounds a day would bring us in at the end 
of the year. Here it is. Three hundred and twelve 
working days in the year, leaving Sundays free/’ 

“ Why should we do that ? ” asked Chaytor. “There’s 
no one to see us. It would be a sheer waste of so much 
money.” 

Basil looked up in surprise ; the remark was not agree- 
able to him, the tone in which it was spoken was still 
less so. 

“I am old-fashioned perhaps,” he said. “I do not 
choose to work on the Sabbath-day.” 

“Growing particular.” 

“ No ; I have always held the same notion.” 

“ We’ll not argue. What is your reckoning? ” 

“Three hundred and twelve working days a year,” 
continued Basil. “Twelve days for sickness, leaving 
three hundred. At four hundred pounds a day we get a 
total of a hundred and twenty thousand — in pounds. Sixty 
thousand pounds each. Truly, a great fortune.” 

“If it lasts,” again said Chaytor. 

“ Of course, if it lasts. There’s the chance of its getting 
better. How does it look to you — as if it will hold out? ” 

Chaytor had been down the claim for some hours dur- 
ing the day, and had pocketed between forty and fifty 
ounces, which he chose to regard as his own especial 
treasure-trove. 

“There’s no saying,” he said. “ The vein runs side- 
ways into the rock. It may peg out at any moment.” 

“We shall not have done badly by the time it does. 
I have to thank you for bringing me here. ” 

“Yes,” said Chaytor, ungraciously, “it was my dis- 
covery. Don’t forget that," 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


IQ9 

“I shall never forget it, Chaytor, nor any of the other 
good turns you have done me. I don't know whether it 
is a healthy or an unhealthy sign that this better luck 
should have aroused me from the apathy in which I have 
been so long plunged. It has softened me ; the crust of 
indifference, of disbelief in human goodness, is melting 
away, I am glad to say. That this is due to the prospect 
of becoming rich is not very creditable ; I would rather 
that the change in me had sprung from a less worldly 
cause ; it would have made me better satisfied with myself. 
But we mortals are very much of the earth, earthy, and 
we take too readily the impressions of immediate circum- 
stance and of our surroundings. They mould our charac- 
ters, as it were, and change them for better or worse." 

“You can do a lot of thinking in a little time, Basil." 

“ How so, Chaytor ? " 

“Because yesterday you were black, to-day you are 
while. Yesterday it was a bad world ; to-day it is a good 
one. A rapid transformation, savoring somewhat of 
fickleness." 

“A just reproof, but I cannot alter my nature. I have 
never given myself credit for much stability except in 
my affections, and there, I think, I am constant. As you 
say, a little reflection has effected a great change in me. 
We judge the world too much from our own stand-point. 
We are fortunate, we trust and are not deceived, we love 
and are loved in return, our daily labor is rewarded — 
it is a good world, a bright world. We are unfortunate, 
we trust and are deceived, we love and are not loved in 
return, we toil and reap dead leaves — it is a bad world, a 
black world. That is the way with us." 

“All of which wise philosophy has sprung from our 
discovery of a rich patch of gold." 

“Iam afraid I can ascribe these better and juster feel- 
ings to no other cause." 

“ Basil," said Chaytor, toying with his pipe and tobacco, 


200 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


say that your reckoning should be justified by results. 
Say that we work here undiscovered for a year — for there 
is the contingency of our being tracked to be thought 
01 ” 

“ Of course.” 

“Say that we do not fall ill or meet with an accident 
which disables us, say that to-day is but a sample of all 
the other days to follow in the next twelve months, say 
that we make a hundred thousand pounds, what would 
you do with your share? For I suppose,” said Chaytor, 
with a light laugh, “that the offer you once made of let- 
ting me keep the lot, it we struck gold rich, is now with^ 
drawn.” 

“I am properly reproved. Yes, Chaytor, I should ex- 
pect my share.” Basil said this in a rather shamefaced 
voice. “ It proves in the first place that I am not a very 
dependable fellow, and in the second place it proves my 
philosophy, that we are moulded by immediate circum- 
stance.” 

“Oh, it is natural enough ; I never expected to meet 
with a man who would step out of the ordinary grooves. 
There are temptations which it is impossible to resist, 
and you and I are no different from the rest of man- 
kind.” 

“I should place you above the majority, Chaytor.” 

“I am obliged to you, but I am as modest as yourself, 
and cannot accept the distinction. Well, Basil, say that 
everything happened as I have described, what would 
you do at the end of the year, with its wonderful result 
of overflowing purses ? ” Basil was silent, and Chaytor 
continued: “You said once that you intended to live 
and die in the colonies. Do you stick to that? ” 

“No.” 

“What would you do?” 

“I should return to England.” 

Chaytor shivered. This good fortune, then, which he 


BASIL AMD ANNETTE. 


201 


had bestowed upon Basil, was to be the means of his own 
destruction. Basil in England, nothing could prevent 
his treachery being discovered. He had led to his own 
ruin. With assumed unconcern he asked : 

“For any specific purpose, Basil?” 

“ It has dawned upon me, Chaytor, that in my thoughts 
I may have done injustice to one whom I loved and who 
loved me.” 

“The little girl, Annette?” 

“The little girl, Annette.” 

“But, speaking of love as you do, one would suppose 
that she was a woman. Whereas she was a mere child 
when you last saw her.” 

“That is true, and I speak of her only as a child. Chay- 
tor, there was something so sweet in Annette’s nature 
that she grew in my heart as a beloved sister might have 
done. To that length I went ; no farther. Have you 
ever felt the influence of a child’s innocent love? It 
purifies you : it is a charm against evil thoughts and evil 
promptings. Annette's affection was like an amulet lying 
on my heart.” 

“Your object in returning to England would be to seek 
her out ? ” 

“I should endeavor to find her. Her silence may 
have been enforced. She may be unhappy ; I might be 
of service to her. There are other reasons. I seem in 
this far-off country to be cut off from sympathy, from 
humanizing influences. The life does not suit me. A 
man, after all, is not a stone ; he has duties, obligations, 
which he should endeavor to fulfil. You have heard me 
speak of my uncle. He was kind to me for a great many 
years, up to the point of my offending him. He is old ; 
consideration is due to him. I should go to him and say, 
‘I do not want your money ; give it to whom you will, 
but let us be friends.’” 

“A hundred tQ pne that \\§ wpuld §hp\y you the door/' 


202 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


said Chaytor, who found in these revelations more than 
sufficient food for thought. 

“At all events, I shall have done my duty ; but I think 
you are mistaken. He has a tender heart under a rough 
exterior, and was always fond of me, even, I believe, 
when he cast me off. I should not wonder if he has not 
sometimes thought, ‘ Why did Basil take me at my word? 
Why did he not make advances towards me? He would 
be right in so thinking ; I ought to have striven for a re- 
concilement. But I was as obstinate as he was himself, 
and perhaps prouder because I was poor. In a sort of 
way I defied him, and as good as said I could do without 
him. I was wrong; I should have acted differently.” 

“You seem to me, Basil,” said Chaytor, slowly, “to 
fall somewhat into the same error in speaking of him as 
you do when you speak of Annette. You speak of the 
little girl as if she was a woman ; you speak of your uncle 
as if he is living.” 

“ If he is dead, I should learn the truth.” 

“ I suppose that you would not leave the colony unless 
you were rich.” 

“ I think not ; I should be placing myself in a false posi- 
tion. We will not talk of it any more to night, Chaytor, 
I am tired, and shall get to bed.” 

“ So shall I. The conversation has been a bit too sen- 
timental for me. Besides, when you say that you are cut 
off from sympathy and human influences here, you are 
not paying me a very great compliment, after the sacri- 
fices I have made for you. But it is the way .of the 
world.” 

“Why, Chaytor,” said Basil, with affectionate emphasis, 
“I never proposed that we should part. My hope was 
that we should go home together. You are as much out 
of place here as I am. With your capacities, and with 
money in your pocket, you could carve a career in Eng- 
land which would make you renowned,” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


203 

“ It is worth thinking- of ; but I must have your renewed 
promise, Basil, that you will not throw up our partnership 
here till we have made our fortune/’ 

“ I give you the promise. It would be folly to land in 
the old country penniless.” 

“So that the upshot of it is, that it all depends upon 
money. In my opinion everything in life does.” 

“You do yourself an injustice, and are not speaking in 
your usual vein. I daresay I am to blame for it. For- 
give me, friend.” 

“Oh, there’s nothing to forgive ; but it is strange, isn't 
it, that the first difference we have had should have sprung 
from the prospect of our making our pile ? Good-night, 
old fellow.” 

“Good-night, Chaytor. ” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Chaytor lay awake that night, brooding. He found 
himself on the horns of a dilemma, and all the cunning 
of his nature was needed to meet the difficulty and over- 
come it successfully. The scheme he had laid, and very 
nearly matured, had been formed and carried out in the 
expectation that the run of ill-luck which had pursued him 
on the goldfields would continue. But now the prospect 
was suddenly altered. Gold floated before his eyes ; he 
saw the stuff in the claim they were working more thickly 
studded than ever with the precious metal ; extravagant 
as were the caculations which Basil had worked out they 
were not too extravagant for his imagination, and cer- 
tainly not sufficiently extravagant for his cupidity. There 
was no reason in the world why these anticipations 
should not be more than fulfilled. Fabulous fortunes had 
been realized on the goldfields before to-day — why should 


504 


BASIL AMD ANNETTE. 


not the greatest that had ever been made be theirs ? He 
was compelled to take Basil into this calculation. He 
could not work alone in the claim ; a mate was necessary, 
and where should he find one so docile as Basil ? With 
all his heart he hated Basil, who seemed to hold in his 
hands the fate of the man who had schemed to destroy 
him. Luck had changed, and the end he had in view 
must be postponed, must even perhaps, be ultimately 
abandoned. To turn his back upon the fortune within 
his grasp for a problematical fortune in the old country 
was not to be dreamt of. The bird he had in hand was 
worth infinitely more than the two he had in the bush — 
these two being Annette and Basil’s uncle. The result of 
his cogitations was that the scheme upon which he had 
been engaged should remain in abeyance until it was 
proved whether the gold they had struck in their claim 
was a flash in the pan, or would hold out till their for- 
tunes were made. In the former case he would carry out 
his scheme to the bitter end : in the latter he would amass 
as much money as he could, and then fly to America, 
where life would be almost as enjoyable as in England. 
It was hardly likely, if Basil discovered his treachery, that 
he would follow him for the mere purpose of revenge. 
“ He is not vindictive,” thought the rogue ; “he is a soft- 
hearted fool, and will let me alone. Thus resolved, 
Chaytor waited for events. It is an example of the tor- 
tuous reasoning by which villainy frequently seeks to 
justify itself that Chaytor threw from his soul the respon- 
sibility of a contemplated crime, by arguing that the result 
did not depend upon him but upon nature. If the claim 
proved to be as rich as they hoped, Basil would be spared ; 
if the gold ran out, he must take the consequences. Hav- 
ing thus established that circumstance would be the crim- 
inal, the evil-hearted man disposed himself- for sleep. 

He had not long to wait to decide which road he was 
to tread. During the week they learned that their antici- 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


1 05 

pations of wealth were not to be realized. Each bucket 
of earth that was sent up from the shaft became poorer 
and poorer ; from the last they obtained but a few grains 
of gold. The following day they met with no better for- 
tune ; the rich patch was exhausted ; the pocket in which 
they had found the gold was empty. 

“Down tumble our castles, ” said Basil, with a certain 
bitterness. 

“We may strike another rich patch,” said Chaytor, and 
thought, “I will not wait much longer. I am sick of 
fortune’s freaks ; I will take the helm again, and steer 
my ship into pleasure’s bay.” 

He went to the township, openly for provisions and 
secretly to see if there was any news from England. 
There were letters at the post office awaiting Basil Whit- 
tingham, Esq. Chaytor put them in his pocket without 
opening them, purchased some provisions, and set forth 
to rejoin Basil. He was more careful in his movements 
than he had ever been. He had a premonition that the 
unopened letters contained news of more than ordinary 
importance, and if he were tracked and followed now his 
plans would be upset and all the trouble he had taken 
thrown away. Basil and he were hidden from the world ; 
no one knew of their whereabouts, no person had any 
knowledge of their proceedings. Should Basil disappear, 
who would suspect? Not a soul. Basil had not a friend 
or acquaintance in all the colonies who was anxious for 
his safety or would be curious to know what had become 
of him. 

Midway between the township at which he had ob- 
tained Basil’s letters and the claim which had animated 
him with delusive hopes the schemer halted for rest. He 
listened and looked about warily to make sure that no 
one had followed him. Not a sound fell upon his ears, 
no living thing was within hail. There are parts of the 
Australian woods which are absolutely voiceless for twen- 


20 6 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


ty-three out of every twenty-four hours. This one hour, 
maybe, is rendered discordant by the crows, whose harsh 
cries grate ominously upon the ear. At the present mo- 
ment, however, these pestilential birds were far away, 
and, satisfied that there was no witness of his proceed- 
ings, Chaytor threw himself upon the earth and opened 
the letters. The first he read was from the lawyers, who 
had already written to Basil in reply to the letters his false 
friend had forged. It was to the following effect : — 

“ Dear Sir. 

“We write at the request of your uncle, Mr. Bartholo- 
mew Whittingham, who, we regret to say, is seriously ill. 
He desires us to inform you that he has abandoned the 
intention as to the disposition of his property with which 
he made you acquainted before your departure from Eng- 
land. A will has been drawn out and duly signed, con- 
stituting you his sole heir. Ordinarily this Would not 
have been made known to you until the occurrence of a 
certain event which appears imminent, but our client 
wished it otherwise, and as doctors happily are not in- 
variably correct in their prognostications it may happen 
that you will yet be in time to see him if you use dispatch 
upon the receipt of this communication, and take ship for 
England without delay. To enable you to do this we 
enclose a sight draft upon the Union Bank of Australia for 
five hundred pounds, and should advise you to lose not 
a day in putting it to the use desired by our client. It is 
our duty at the same time to say that we hold out no 
hope that you will arrive in time. In the expectation of 
seeing you within a reasonable period, and receiving 
your instructions, we have the honor to remain, 

“ Your obedient servants, 

“ Bulfinch & Bulfinch.” 

There was another letter from the lawyers : — 

“ Dear Sir, 

“Following our letter of yesterday’s date we write to 
say that we have been directed by your uncle, Mr. Bar- 
tholomew Whittingham, to forward to you the sealed en- 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


207 

closure which you will find herewith. We regret to in- 
form you that our client is sinking fast, and that the doc- 
tors who are attending him fear that he cannot last through 
the w r eek. 

“We have the honor to remain, 

“Your obedient servants, 

“Bulfinch & Bulfinch.” 

Before unfastening the “sealed enclosure, ” Chaytor 
rose in a state of great excitement, and allowed his 
thoughts to find audible expression : 

“At last ! Here is the certainty. No more Will-o’-the- 
wisps. Fortune is mine — do you hear? — mine.. Truly, 
justly mine. Who has worked for it but I? Tell me 
that. Would the idiot Basil ever have humbled himself 
as I did ; would he ever have worked his old uncle as I 
have done ? What is the result ? I softened the old fel- 
low’s heart, and the money he would have left to some 
charity has fallen to me. Every laborer is worthy of his 
hire, and I am worthy of mine. Basil would never have 
had one penny of the fortune, and therefore it is my 
righteous due. • At last, at last ! No more sweating and 
toiling. The world is before me, and I shall live the life 
of a gentleman. There is work still to be done, both here 
and at home, and I will do it. No blenching, Chaytor ; no 
flinching now. What has to be done must and shall be 
done. There is less danger in making the winning move 
than in upsetting the board after the game I have played. 
Hurrah ! Let me see what the precious ‘ enclosure’ has 
to say for itself.” 

He broke the seal, and read : — 

“ My dear Nephew Basil, 

“ My sands of life are running out, and before it is too 
late I write to you, probably for the last time. You will 
be glad to hear from me direct, I know, for your nature is 
different from mine, and your heart has always been 
open to tender impressions, When I cast you from me 


208 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


I dare say you suffered, but after my first unjust feeling 
of resentment was over my sufferings have been far 
greater than yours could have been. It is the honest truth 
that in abandoning you I abandoned the only real pleas- 
ure which life had for me ; but my obstinacy, dear lad, 
would not allow me to take steps towards a reconcile- 
ment. It may be that, had you done so, I should still 
have hardened my heart against you, and should have 
done you the injustice of thinking that you wished to 
propitiate me for selfish motives. In these, as I believe 
them to be, the last hours of my life, I have no wish to 
spare myself ; I can see more clearly now than I have 
done for many a long year, and my pride deserves no 
excuse. This ‘pride’ has been the bane of my life ; it 
has sapped the fountains of innocent enjoyment ; it has 
enveloped me in a steel shroud which shut me out from 
love and sympathy. You, and you alone, since I was a 
young man, were able to penetrate this shroud, and even 
to you I showed only that worse side of myself by which 
the world must have judged me. I did not give myself 
the trouble of inquiring whether the counsel I was instill- 
ing into you was true or false ; I see now that it was 
false, and it is some comfort to me to know that your 
nature was too simple and honorable, too loving and sym- 
pathetic, to be warped by it. Early in life I met with a 
disappointment which soured me. There is no need to 
inscribe that page in this letter — a loving letter, I beg you 
to believe. It was a disappointment in love, and from 
the day I experienced it I became soured and embittered. 
I was a poor man at the time, and I devoted myself to 
the task of making money ; I made it, and much good 
has it done me. With wealth at my command I set up 
two dark starting points, which I allowed to influence me 
in every question under consideration — one, money, the 
other human selfishness. These, with a dogged and 
obstinate belief in the correctness of my own judgment 
on every matter which came before me, made me what 
I have been. I had no faith, I had no religion ; my life 
was godless, and the attribute of selfishness which I as- 
cribed to the actions of all other men guided and con- 
trolled me in mine. You never really saw me in my true 
character. That I regarded money as the greatest good 
I did not conceal from you, but other sides of me, even 
more objectionable than this, were not, I think, revealed 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


209 


to you. The mischief I would have done you glanced off 
harmlessly, as the action you took in ruining yourself to 
pay your father's debts proved. You were armed with 
an invincible shield, my dear lad, a shield in which shone 
the religious principle, honorable conduct, and faith in 
human nature. Be thankful for that armor, Basil; it is 
not every man who is so blessed. And let me tell you 
this. It is often an inheritance, and if not that it is often 
furnished by a mother’s loving teaching and influence. 
You had the sweetest of mothers ; mine w*as of harder 
grain. I lay no blame upon her, nor, I repeat, do I seek 
to excuse myself, but I would point out to you, as a 
small measure of extenuation, that some of us are more 
fortunate than others in the early training we receive, 
and in the possession of inherited virtues. 

“ Basil, my dear lad, you did right in paying your 
father’s debts, despite the base view I expressed of your 
action. Angry that a step so important should have been 
taken without my consent being asked, angry, indeed, 
that it should have been taken at all, I said to myself, ‘I 
will punish him for it ; I will teach him a lesson/ So I wrote 
you a heartless letter, informing you that I had resolved 
to disinherit you, and suggesting that you should return 
the money I had freely given you and which was 
justly yours. There are few men in the world who would 
have treated that request as you did, and you could not 
have dealt me a harder blow than when you forwarded 
me a cheque for the amount with interest added. Your in- 
dependence, y.our manliness, hardened instead of softened 
me ; ‘ He does it to defy me/ I thought, and I allowed 
you to leave England under the impression that the ties 
which had bound us together were irrevocably destroyed. 
But the blow I aimed at you recoiled upon myself; your 
reply to my mean and sordid request has been a bitter 
sting to me, and had you sought to revenge yourself upon 
me you could not have accomplished your purpose more 
effectually. I have always lived a lonely life, as you 
know ; since I lost you my home has been still more 
cheerless and lonesome ; but I would not call you back 
— no, my pride stopped me ; I could not endure the 
thought that you, or any man, should triumph over me. 
You see, my boy, I am showing you the contemptible 
motives by which I was actuated ; it is a punishment I 
inflict upop myself, and I deserve the harshest judgment 


210 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


you could pass upon me. If my time were to come over 
again, would I act differently ? I cannot say. A man's 
matured character is not easily twisted out of its usual 
grooves. I am as I have been made, or, to speak more 
correctly, as I chose to make myself, and I have been 
justly punished. 

“ But, Basil if the harvest I have gathered has been 
worthless to me and to others, some good may result from 
it in the future. Not at my hands, at yours. You are 
my sole heir, and you will worthily use the money I leave 
you. I look forward to the years to come, and I see you 
in a happy home, with wife and children around you, 
and it may be then that you will give me a kind thought 
and that you will place a flower on my grave. 

“ I am greatly relieved by this confession. Good-bye, 
my lad, and God bless you. 

“Your affectionate Uncle, 

‘ * Bartholomew \Vh i tt i ngham. ” 


“Sentimental old party," mused Newman Chaytor, as he 
replaced the letter in its envelope. “ If this had fallen into 
Basil's hands it would have touched him up considerably. 
The old fellow had to give in after all, but it was my letters 
that worked the oracle. The credit of the whole affair is 
mine, and Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham ought to be 
very much obliged to me for soothing his last hours." 
He laughed — a cruel laugh. “ As for the harvest he has 
gathered, I promise him that it shall be worthily spent. 
He sees in the future his heir in a happy home, with wife 
and children around him. Well ! — perhaps. If all goes 
smooth with the charming Annette, we’ll see what we can 
do to oblige him. Now let me read the little puss’s 
letter ; there may be something interesting in it." 


“ My dear Basil " (wrote Annette), “ I have something 
to tell you. Uncle Gilbert has discovered that we have 
been corresponding with each other, and there has been 
a scene. It came through aunt. The day before yester- 
day they went out and left me and Emily together, 


BASIL AND ANNE TTE. 2ll 

From what they said I thought they would have been gone 
a good many hours, and I got out my desk and began to 
read your letters all over again. Do you know how 
many you have written me ? Seven ; and I have every 
one of them, and mean to keep them always. After 
reading them I sat down to write to you — a letter you will 
not receive, because this will take its place, and because 
I had not written a dozen words before aunt came in 
suddenly, and caught me bending over my desk. Seeing 
her, I was putting my letter away (I never write to you 
when she is with me) when she came close up to me and 
laid her hand on mine. ‘What is that you are writing? ’ 
she asked. ‘ A letter/ I replied. It was not very clever 
of me, but I did not for the moment know what other 
answer to give. ‘ To whom ? ’ she asked. ‘ To a friend/ 
I said. ‘Oh, you have friends/ she said * ‘tell me who 
they are.' ‘ I have only one/ I said, ‘and I am writing 
to him/ ‘And he has written to you?’ she said. ‘Yes/ 
I said, ‘ he has written to me. ’ ‘ Who is this only friend ? ’ 

she asked ; ‘Do I know him ?’ ‘Yes/ I said, ‘you knew 
him slightly. There is no reason for concealment ; it is 
Basil my dear father’s friend/ ‘ Oh/ she said, ‘ your dear 
father’s friend. Is he in England, then ? ’ ‘ No/ I answered, 
‘he is in Australia.’ ‘His letters should have been ad- 
dressed to the care of your uncle,’ she said, ‘and that, I 
am sure, has not been the case, or they would have passed 
through our hands. How have you obtained them?’ 
4 It is my secret,’ I replied. Fortunately Emily was not 
in the room, and I do not think they have any suspicion 
that she has been assisting me ; if they had they would 
discharge her, though I should fight against that. ‘ Your 
answers are evasive,’ she said. ‘They are not, aunt,” 
I said; ‘ they are truthful answers.’ ‘Are you afraid, 
she asked, ‘if the letters had been addressed to our 
care, as they ought to have been, that they would not 
have been given to you ?’ I did not answer her, and she 
turned away, and said she would inform Uncle Gilbert of 
the discovery she had made. I did not go on with my first 
letter to you when she was gone; I thought I would wait 
till Uncle Gilbert spoke to me. He did the same evening. 
‘Your aunt has informed me/ he said, ‘that you have 
been carrying on a correspondence with that man named 
Basil who so very nearly imposed upon your father in 
Australia.’ ‘That man, uncle,’ I said, ‘ is a gentleman, 


212 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


and he did not try to impose upon my father/ ‘It will be 
to your advantage, my dear niece/ said Uncle Gilbert, 
very quietly, ‘ not to bandy words with me, nor say things 
which may interfere with your freedom and comfort. I 
am your guardian, and, dispute it as you may, I stand in 
your father's place. To carry on a clandestine corres- 
pondence with a young man who is no way related to 
you is improper and unmaidenly. May I enquire if there 
is any likelihood of your correspondent favoring us with a 
visit?' ‘I hope I shall see him one day/ I said. ‘There 
is a chance of it, then/ he said, ‘and you can probably 
inform me when we may expect him/ ‘No I cannot tell 
you that/ I said. ‘Your aunt believes/ he said, ‘that 
you are not speaking the truth when you answer questions 
we put to you/ ‘All my answers are truthful ones/ I 
said. ‘ You refuse to tell us,' he said, ‘by what means 
this secret correspondence has been carried on/ ‘ I refuse 
to tell you/ I answered. ‘ I will not press you/ he said, 

‘ but it will be my duty to discover what you are hiding 
from me. I shall succeed ; I never undertake a task and 
fail. I always carry it out successfully to the end. In the 
meantime this correspondence must cease/ ‘ I will not 
promise/ I said, ‘anything I do not mean to fulfil/ 

‘ That is an honest admission,’ he said, ‘and I admire 
you for it. Nevertheless, the correspondence must cease, 
and if you persist in it I shall find a way to put a stop to 
it. Your reputation, your good name is at stake, and 
I must guard you from the consequences of your impru- 
dence. My dear niece, I fear that you are bent upon op- 
posing my wishes. It is an unequal battle between you 
and me — I tell you so frankly. You are under my con- 
trol, and I intend to exercise my authority. We will now 
let the matter drop/ And it did drop there and then, and 
not another word has been spoken on the subject. 

“There, Basil, I have told you everything as far as I 
can recollect it. I might be much worse off than I am. 
But it would be different if I did not have you to think of, 
if I did not feel that I have a dear, dear friend in the 
world, though he is so many thousands of miles away, 
and that some day I shall see him again. It is something 
to look forward to, and not a day passes that I do not 
think of it. You remember the books you used to tell me 
of on the plantation ? I have read them all again and 
again, and they are all delightful. If the choice were 
mine, and you were to be near me, or with me as my 


BASIL AMD ANNETTE. 


21 S 

dear fath(?r wished, I should dearly like to live the old life 
on the plantation ; but there would be a difference, Basil ; 
I could not live it now without books, and I do not see 
how anybody could. Often do I believe them to be real, 
and when I have laid down one which has made me 
laugh and cry I feel as if I had made new friends with 
whom I can rejoice and sympathize. There will be 
plenty to talk of when we meet, for that we shall meet 
some day I have not the least doubt. Only if you would 
grow rich, and come home soon, it would be so beautiful. 
Really and truly, Basil, I want a friend, a true friend, to 
talk to about things. ‘About what things, Annette?' 
perhaps you ask. How shall I explain ? I will try — only 
you must remember that I am older than when we were 
together on the plantation, and that, as Uncle Gilbert im- 
plied, in a year or two I shall be a woman. 

“Basil, when that time comes I want to have more 
freedom than I have now; I do not want to feel as if I 
were in chains ; but how shall I be able to set myself 
free without a friend like you by my side? I do not think 
I am clever, but one can’t help thinking of things. I un- 
derstood that when my dear father died Uncle Gilbert was 
doing what he had a right to do in becoming my guardian 
and taking care of the money that was left Emily says 
it is all mine, but I do not know. If it is, I should be 
glad to give half of it to Uncle Gilbert if he would agree 
to shake hands with me and bid me good-bye. We should 
be ever so much better friends apart from each other. I 
did venture timidly to speak to him once about my dear 
father’s property, but he only said, ‘Time enough, time 
enough : there is no need to trouble yourself about it ; 
wait till you are a good many years older.’ But, Basil, I 
want to be free before I am a good many years older, and 
how is that to be managed without your assistance? That 
is what I mean when I say I want a true friend to talk 
about things. 

“ I must leave off soon; Emily says the mail for Aus- 
tralia leaves to-day, and this letter has to be posted. I 
am writing it very early in the morning in my bedroom, 
before uncle and aunt are up ; it is fortunate that they do 
not rise till late. But to be compelled to write in this way 
— do you understand now what I mean when I say that I 
do not want to feel as if I were in chains? Emily says 
she will manage to post the letter for me without uncle 


214 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


and aunt knowing, and I hope she will be ablfe to Of 
course it would be ridiculous for me to suppose that 
Emily and I can be a match for Uncle Gilbert, for I am 
certain he is watching me, though there is no appearance 
of it. The way he talks and the way he looks sometimes 
puts me in mind of a fox. 

“Good-bye, Basil. Do not forget me, and if you do 
not hear from me for a long time, do not think I have 
forgotten you. I can never, never do that. Oh, how I 
wish time would pass quickly ! 

“Always yours affectionately, 

* ‘ Annette. ” 

When he finished reading Annette’s letter, Newman 
Chaytor looked at the date, and saw that it had been 
written a month earlier than the letter from the lawyers. 
Examining the post-mark on the envelope he saw that it 
could not have been posted till three weeks after it had 
been written, and that it bore a French stamp. 

“The little puss was not in England, ” he thought, 
“when she contrived to get this letter popped into the 
post. That shows that she was right in supposing that 
Uncle Gilbert was watching her. Sly old fox, Uncle Gil- 
bert. He means to keep tight hold of the pretty Annette. 
Saint George to the rescue ! I feel quite chivalrous, and 
as if I were about to set forth to rescue maidens in dis- 
tress. She is not quite devoid of sense, this Annette ; it 
will be an entertainment to have a bout with Uncle Gil- 
bert on her behalf. He saw very little of Basil, and if we 
resembled each other much less than we do it would be 
scarcely possible for him to suspect that another man 
was playing Basil’s part in this rather remarkable drama. 
Time, circumstance, everything is in my favor — but I 
wish the next few weeks were over.” 

The harsh cawing of crows aroused him from his mus- 
ings. Their grating voices were a fit accompaniment to 
his cruel thoughts. With a set, determined face, and with 
a heart in which dwelt no compunction for the deed he 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 2 i$ 

was about to do, he turned his face towards the spot 
where Basil, unsuspicious of the fate in store for him, was 
awaiting- the comrade in whom he had put his trust. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

In Australia, as in all new countries where treasure is 
discovered, or where land is not monopolized by the few, 
townships spring up like mushrooms. Some grow apace, 
and become places of importance; others, in which the 
promise which brought them into existence is unfulfilled, 
languish and die out, to share the fate of the township of 
Gum Flat, in which Basil had met the man who played 
him false. Shortly after the events which have been 
recorded, a party of prospectors halted in a valley some 
eight miles from the river where Basil and Newman 
Chaytor had been working, and began to look for gold. 
Their search was rewarded, the precious metal was found 
in paying quantities, and miners flocked to the valley and 
spread themselves over the adjacent country. The name 
of one of the early prospectors was Prince, and, a town- 
ship being swiftly formed, there was a certain fitness in 
dubbing it Princetown. All the adjuncts of a town which 
bade fair to be prosperous were soon gathered together. 
At the heels of the gold-diggers came the storekeepers, 
with tents in which to transact their business, and dray- 
loads of goods wherewith to stock their stores. The tide, 
set going, flowed rapidly, and in less than a fortnight 
Princetown was a recognized centre of the rough civili- 
zation which reigns in such-like places. Storekeepers, 
publicans, auctioneers, plied their trade from morning till 
night, and the gold, easily obtained, was as easily parted 
with by the busy bees, who lived only for the day and 
thought not of the morrow. The scene, from early 


21 6 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


morning 1 till midnight, was one of remarkable animation, 
replete with strange features which a denizen of old-time 
civilization, being set suddenly in its midst, would have 
gazed upon with astonishment Here was a cattle-yard, 
in which horses for puddling machines and drays, and 
sheep and oxen for consumption, were being knocked 
down to the highest bidder during ten hours of the day. 
A large proportion of the horses purchased by the 
miners were jibbers and buckjumpers, and a very Babel 
of confusion reigned in the High Street as they strove to 
lead away their purchases. Around each little knot of 
mates who had bought a jibber or a buckjumper a number 
of idlers gathered, shouting with derision or approval 
when the horse or the man was triumphant. Exciting 
struggles between the two were witnessed ; men jumped 
upon the unsaddled horses and were thrown into the air, 
amid the yells of the spectators, only to jump on again 
and renew the contest. Here an attempt was being made 
to pull along a jibber, whose forelegs were firmly planted 
before it, while twenty whips were being cracked at its 
heels to urge it on in the desired direction. A dozen 
yards off, up and out went the heels of a buckjumping 
brute, scattering the crowd, and for the moment vic- 
torious. Nobody was seriously hurt, bruises being reck- 
oned of no account by these wanderers from the home 
land, who, for the first time in their lives, were breathing 
the air of untrammelled freedom. It was wonderful to 
observe the effects of the newer life which was pulsing in 
the veins of the adventurers. At home they would have 
walked to and from their work, or idled in the streets be- 
cause work was not to be obtained, listless and spiritless, 
mere commonplace mortals with pale faces, and often 
hopeless eyes. Here it was as if fresh, vigorous young 
blood had been infused into them. The careless, easy 
dress, the manly belt with its fossicking knife in sheath, 
the ragged find graceful billycock hut, the JissQine mQ v<^ 


BASIL AMD ANNETTE . 


217 

ments of their limbs, the hair flowing upon their breasts, 
transformed them from drudges into something very like 
heroes. Seldom anywhere in the world can finer speci- 
mens of manhood be seen than on these new goldfields ; 
it is impossible to withhold admiration of the manlier 
qualities which have sprung into life with the free labor 
in which their days are engaged. It is true that liberty 
often degenerates into lawless licence, but the vicious 
attributes of humanity must be taken into account, and 
they are as conspicuous in these new scenes, mayhap, as 
in the older grooves ; and although crime and vice are 
met with, their proportion is no larger — indeed, it is not 
so large — than is made manifest by statistics in the older 
orders of civilization. Next to the cattle sale-yard is a 
small store in which the wily gold-buyer is fleecing and 
joking with the miner who comes to change virgin gold 
into coined sovereigns or the ragged bank-notes of Aus- 
tralian banks. Next to the gold-buyer’s tent is a stationer 
who, for the modest sum of half-a-crown, will give a 
man an envelope, a sheet of note-paper, and pen and ink, 
with which he can write a letter to a distant friend. It 
was an amazing charge, but it was not uncommon during 
the first few weeks of life on a new goldfield, and the 
wonder of it was that men who toiled in the old countries 
for a little more than half-a-crown a day slapped down 
the coin without a murmur against the extortion. Next 
to the stationer was a canvas hotel, wherein thimblefuls 
of brandy and whiskey were retailed at a shilling the 
nobbier, and Bass’s pale ale at two shillings the pint 
bottle. Then clothes stores, provision stores, general 
stores, dancing and billiard saloons, branches of great 
banks, with flags waving over their fronts, and all driving 
a roaring trade. The joyousness of prosperity was ap- 
parent in every animate sign that met the view, and a 
rollicking freedom of manner was established, very much 
as if it were an order of freemasonry which made all men 


2 1 8 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


brothers. Here was a man who in England never had 
three sovereigns to “ bless himself with ” (a favorite say- 
ing, which has its meaning) calling upon every person in 
sight — strangers to him, every man Jack of them — to 
come and drink at his expense at the usual shilling a 
thimbleful, throwing to the bartender a dirty bank-note, 
and pocketing the change without condescending to count 
it. At present the circulation was confined to bank-notes, 
sovereigns and silver money. Coppers were conspicuous 
by their absence, and, falling into miners’ hands, would 
very likely be pitched away with scorn. The lowest price 
for anything was sixpence, whether it was a packet of pins 
or a yard of tape — a very paradise for haberdashers with 
their eternal three farthings. The man who was standing 
treat all round, and the more the merrier, had been a 
dockyard laborer in London, a grovelling grub, who at 
the end of the week had not twopence to spare, and prob- 
ably would have been glad to accept that much charity 
from the hands of the kindly-hearted. In Princetown he 
was a lord, and just now seemed bent upon getting as 
drunk as one. He had struck a new lead, and on this day 
had washed out more than he would have received for 
two years’ labor at home. Small wonder that his head 
was turned; small wonder for his belief that he was in 
possession of a Midas mine of wealth which would prove 
inexhaustible. Thus in varied form ran the story of these 
newly-opened goldfields, with their delirious excitements 
and golden hopes. A new era had dawned upon mankind, 
and bone and muscle were the valuable commodities. So 
believed the miners, the kings of the land ; the bush roads 
teemed with them, and a tramp of a hundred miles was 
thought nothing of. Their swags on their backs, they 
marched through bush and forest, and lit their camp fires 
at night, and sat round the blazing logs, smoking, singing, 
and telling bush yarns, until, healthfully tired out with 
their day’s labor, they wrapped themselves in their 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


2ig 


1 

blankets and slept soundly with the stars shining on 
them. Up they rose in the morning, as merry as Robin 
Hood’s men, and, drawing water from the creek in which 
they washed, made their tea and baked their “damper/’ 
then shouldered their swags again, and resumed their 
cheerful march. Soldiers of civilization they, opening up 
a new country in which fortunes were made and work 
honestly paid for. No room for that pestilential brood, 
the hydra-headed middleman, who pays the producer a 
shilling for his wares, and, passing it on from hand to 
hand, delivers it to the consumer at six times its proper 
value. It is this multiplying process which makes life so 
hard to hundreds of thousands in the over-crowded coun- 
tries of the old world. 

Some passing features of the sudden creation of Prince- 
town have been given, but one remains to be introduced. 
Exactly twelve days from the discovery of gold in the 
valley, an ancient horse of lean proportions, dragging a 
crazy old wagon behind it, halted in the High Street in 
the early part of the day. By the side of the tired animal 
was a pale-faced man, who never once used his worn-out 
whip, but gave kindly words to his steed in the place of 
lashes. He was poorly dressed and looked wan and 
anxious. When he halted there descended from the wagon 
a woman as pale-faced and anxious as himself, and a 
little girl brimming over with life and spirits. The 
woman was his wife, the little girl his daughter. The 
frontages to the most desirable allotments had been 
pegged out a long way north and south, and there were 
speculators who had no intention of occupying these 
allotments themselves, but were prepared to sell their 
rights to new-comers. After a few inquiries and some 
shrewd examination of the allotments, the man bargained 
for one in a suitable position, and became its owner. 
Then from the wagon was taken a tent of stout canvas, 
and while the old horse ate its corn and. bent its head to 


2 20 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


have its nose stroked by the little girl, the man and 
woman set to work to build their habitation. In the 
course of the afternoon this was done, and then, after an 
at fresco repast, the wagon was unloaded of its contents. 
This process aroused the curiosity of the loungers in High 
Street, Princetown, the goods being of an unusual charac- 
ter. Mysterious-looking articles were taken out of the 
wagon and conveyed with great care into the tent, and 
presently one on-looker, better informed than his com- 
rades, cried : 

“ Why, it’s a printing-office ! ” 

A printing-office it was, of the most modest description, 
but still, a printing-office ; that engine of enlightenment 
without which the wheels of civilization would cease to 
revolve. The word was passed round, the news spread, 
and brought other contingents of spectators, and the 
canvas tent became a temple, and the pale-faced man a 
man of mark. Inside the temple the woman was arrang- 
ing the type and cases, putting up without assistance two 
single frames and a double one ; outside the man was 
answering, or endeavoring to answer, the eager questions 
asked of him, extracting, at the same time, for his own 
behoof, such scraps of information as would prove useful 
to him. Pale as was his face, and anxious as was the 
look in his eyes, he was a man of energy and resource. 

“ Mates,” he cried, ‘Hook out to-morrow morning for 
the first number of the Princetown Argus. Who’ll sub- 
scribe ? ” 

“I will,” and “I will,” answered a dozen voices, and 
the enterprising printer, who had staked his all on the 
venture, was immediately engaged in receiving subscrip- 
tions for his newspaper, and entering the names in a 
memorandum book. His face became flushed, the anxious 
look fled from his eyes ; in less than half an hour he had 
thirty pounds in his pockets. 

'‘Go and get me some news,” he said, addressing his 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


22 


audience generally. “ Never mind what it is, I’ll put it 
into shape.” 

“ William,” cried the woman from the tent, “you must 
come and help me put up the press.” 

While the two were thus engaged, a good-natured 
fellow in the open took upon himself the task of receiving 
additional subscribers, and when the press was set up, 
and the roaster printer made his appearance again, a 
matter of twenty pounds was handed to him by his self- 
constituted lieutenant. 

“ Fifty pounds,” whispered the adventurer to his wife. 

“ A good start.” 

She nodded, beaming, and proceeded with her work, 
assisted by her husband. He had announced the initial 
number of the Princetown Argus for the next morning, 
and out it would have to come. This would necessitate 
their stopping up all night, but what did that matter? 
They were establishing a property, and were already re- 
garded as perhaps the most important arrival in the new 
township. In the middle of their work a, visitor presented 
himself. The printer was spreading ink upon the ink 
table and getting his roller in order, when his visitor 
opened up a conversation. 

“ The Princetown Argus, eh ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Aeood move. The first number to-morrow morn- 
ing ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“Can it be done? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said the printer confidently. “When I say 
done, done it is.” 

“That’s your sort. How many pages? ” 

“Two. The second number four.” 

“What do you ask for the whole of the front page in 
the first four numbers? I’ve a mind to advertise.” 

The proposal staggered the printer, but he did not show 
jt ; the woman pricked up her ears* 


222 


BASIL AND ANNE TTE. 


“ A hundred pounds,” replied the printer, amazed at 
his own boldness. 

The visitor nodded, as if a hundred pounds for an ad- 
vertisement were an every-day occurrence with him. 

“ With the option,” he said, “of the next four numbers 
at the same price.” 

“You can have the option,” said the printer, who could 
not yet be called a newspaper proprietor, because his 
journal was in embryo. 

“ Have you got some bold type ? Big letters ? ” 

“ Yes. My plant is small at present, but I can do 
printing as well as newspaper work. That’s what I’m 
here for. I shall be getting new type sent on in a week 
or two.” 

“Show me ‘John Jones’ in big letters.” 

It was done almost instantaneously, and the visitor 
gazed at the name approvingly. It was his own. 

“ Now underneath, ‘Beehive Stores.’” 

The letters were put together, and the printer said, 
“ That will look well, right across the page.” 

John Jones nodded again. “Now, underneath that, 
‘The Beehive, The Beehive, The only Beehive. John 
Jones, John Jones, The Only John Jones. Look out for 
the Flag, Painted by the Finest Artist of the Age.’” 

“Go slow,” said the printer. “All right, I’m up to 
you.” 

“ ‘ Buy Everything you Want,’ ” proceeded John Jones, 
watching the nimble fingers with admiration, “‘ at the 
only Beehive, of the only John Jones. Groceries, Provis- 
ions, Clothing of every description, Picks and Shovels, 
Powder and Fuse, Candles, Tubs and Dishes, Crockery, 
Bottled Ale and Stout, Everything of the Very Best. The 
highest price given for Gold. Come One, Come All. 
The Only Beehive. The Only John Jones. The Flag 
that’s Braved a Thousand Years the Battle and the Breeze. 
Good luck to all/ There, that’s the advertisement, 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


22 3 

Spread it out, you know. Here’s the hundred pounds. 
You might give me a paragraph.” 

“I’ll do that,” said the printer. “ Something in this 
style : ‘ We have much pleasure in directing our readers’ 
attention to the advertisement of our enterprising towns- 
man, John Jones, the Beehive Stores, at whose emporium 
gold-diggers and others will find the finest stock of goods,’ 
&c. , &c., &c. Will that do?” 

“ Capitally,” said John Jones. “Put me down as a sub- 
scriber. ” And off went the enterprising storekeeper, 
satisfied with his outlay and that it would bring him in a 
good return. Both he and William Simmons, the founder 
of The Princetown Argus , are types. It is opportunity 
that makes the man. 

The midnight oil was burned in the new printing-office 
until the sun rose the next morning. Not a wink of sleep 
did William Simmons or his wife have ; she was almost 
as expert a compositor as her husband, and she is pre- 
sented to the reader standing before her case, composing- 
stick in hand, picking up stamps, as a woman worthy of 
the highest admiration. When she paused in her work it 
was to have a peep at her little girl, who was sleeping 
soundly, and to stoop and give her darling a kiss. Wil- 
liam Simmons was the busiest of men the whole of the 
time, in and out of his tent, running here and there 
to pick up scraps of information for paragraphs and 
short articles, and setting up his leading article intro- 
ducing The Princetown Argus to the world, literally “out 
of his head,” for he did not write it first and put it in type 
afterwards, but performed the feat of which few compos- 
itors are capable, that of making his thoughts take the 
place of “ copy.” At ten o clock in the morning the first 
copy of the newspaper was produced, William Simmons 
being the pressman and Mrs. Simmons the roller boy. 
It is a curiosity in its way, and readers at the British Mu- 
seum should look it up. There was a great demand for 


224 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


copies, and Simmons and his wife did their best to supply 
it, but they could not hold out longer than twelve o’clock, 
at which hour they shut up shop, and throwing themselves 
upon some blankets on the ground, enjoyed the repose 
which they had so worthily earned. Before they awoke 
something took place which created a great stir in the 
township, and news of it was conveyed to the office of 
The Prince town Argus. Aroused from their sleep, the 
printer and his wife were up and astir again, and getting 
his material together, William Simmons,, on the following 
day, issued an “extra edition” of his paper, the princi- 
pal item of which is given in the next chapter. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

“ A sad discovery” (wrote the editor and proprietor of 
The Princetown Argus) “was yesterday made on a spot 
some dozen miles from Princetown, which we hasten to 
place before our readers in the shape of an extra edition 
of our journal, the success of the first number of which, 
we are happy to say, has exceeded our most glowing an- 
ticipations. We ask the inhabitants of Princetown to ac- 
cept the issue of this our first extra edition as a guarantee 
of the spirit with which we intend to conduct the news- 
paper which will represent their interests. The facts of 
the discovery we refer to are as follows : 

“At the distance we have named from Princetown runs 
the Plenteous River, towards which the eyes of our enter- 
prising miners have been already turned as the source 
from which, when our creeks run dry, we shall have to 
obtain our water supply. The party of miners who have 
formed themselves into a company for the purpose of 
sluicing a portion of the ground in Fairman’s Flat, de- 
puted two of their number, Joseph Porter and Steve Fair- 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


225 

fax, to make an inspection of the lay of the land between 
Plenteous River and Fairman s Flat, to decide upon the 
feasibility of cutting* a water race, and upon the best 
means of carrying out the design. The ground they hold 
has been proved to be highly auriferous, and there is no 
doubt that rich washings-out will reward their enterprise. 
It was not to be expected that they would make their ex- 
amination without prospecting the ground here and there, 
and the reports they have brought in seem to establish 
the fact that the whole of the country between Princetown 
and the Plenteous River constitutes one vast goldfield. 
The future of our township is assured, and within a short 
time its position will be second to none in all Australia. 
The report of Porter and Fairfax is also highly favorable 
to the contemplated water race, and the work will be 
commenced at once. It is calculated that there are al- 
ready six thousand miners in Princetown. We have room 
for five times six thousand, and we extend the hand of 
welcome to our new comrades. 

“ Upon the arrival of Porter and Fairfax at the Plen- 
teous River they naturally concluded that they were the 
first on the ground, no accounts of any gold workings 
thereabouts having been published in any of the Austra- 
lian journals. They soon discovered their error. Work 
had been done on the banks of the river, as was shown 
by the heaps of tailings in different places, and on one of 
the ranges sloping upwards from the banks a shaft had 
been sunk. At no great distance from the shaft a small 
tent was set up, ancf the two men proceeded to it for the 
purpose of making inquiries. Although the tent pre- 
sented evidences of having been quite recently occupied, 
no person was visible, and they came to the conclusion 
that its owner was at work in another direction and would 
return at the close of day. Their curiosity induced them 
to examine the shaft which had been sunk on the range, 
and this examination led to an important result. There 
15 


226 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


was no windlass over the shaft, but a rope securely fas- 
tened at the top hung- down the mouth. They shook the 
rope and ascertained that it hung loose. To their re- 
peated calls down the shaft they received no reply, and 
they pulled up the rope. To their surprise there were not 
more than twelve feet of rope hanging down, whereas 
the stuff that had been hauled up indicated a depth of 
some forty or fifty feet. A closer examination of the rope 
showed that it had been broken at a part where it had 
got frayed and unable to bear a heavy weight. Being 
provided with a considerable length of rope the men re- 
solved to descend the shaft and ascertain whether an ac- 
cident had occurred. Having made their rope fast, Fair- 
fax descended and, reaching the bottom, was horrified to 
discover a man lying there senseless and apparently dead. 
As little time as possible was lost in getting him to the 
top, a work of considerable difficulty and danger, but it 
was accomplished safely after great labor. Then came 
the task of ascertaining whether the man was dead. He 
was not ; but, although he exhibited signs of life, the in- 
juries he received were of such a nature that they feared 
there was little hope for him. It was impossible for Fair- 
fax and Porter to convey him to Princetown without a 
horse and cart, and Fairfax hurried back to the township 
to obtain what was necessary, while Porter remained at 
the Plenteous River to nurse the injured man. He has 
been brought here, and is now being well looked after. 
The latest reports of him are more favorable, and hopes 
are entertained that his life may \>e saved. He has not 
yet, however, recovered consciousness, and nothing is 
known as to his name. Neither is anything absolutely pre- 
cise known of the circumstances of the accident, except 
that it was caused by the breaking of the rope, a portion 
of which was found at the bottom of the shaft, tightly 
clenched in the stranger’s hand. 

“ There is a certain element of mystery in the affair, 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


227 

and we shall briefly allude to one or two points which 
seem to have a bearing upon it. 

“Fairfax and Porter, to whose timely arrival at Plente- 
ous River the stranger undoubtedly owes his life, if it is 
spared, are of the opinion that there were two men work- 
ing in the shaft and living together in the tent. Upon the 
former point they may be mistaken, for the rope was so 
fixed that a man working by himself could ascend and 
descend the shaft with comparative ease, although the 
labor of filling each bucket of stuff below and then ascend- 
ing to the top to draw it up, would have been excessive. 
But upon the latter point there can be no doubt, for the 
reason that the tent contained two beds, both of which 
must have been lain upon within the last week or two. 
Inferring that there were two men working the shaft, is it 
possible, when the accident occurred, that the man at the 
top of the shaft made tracks from the place and left his 
mate to a cruel and lingering death ? This is mere theory, 
and we present it for what it is worth. An opinion has 
been expressed that the rope has been tampered with and 
that it did not break from natural wear and tear. If so, 
it strengthens the theory we have presented. Nothing 
was found in the pockets of the injured man which could 
lead to his identity, nor was any gold found upon his 
person or in the tent. Thus, for the present, the affair is 
wrapt in mystery.” 

In the next week’s number of The Princetown Argus the 
incident was again referred to in a leading article, in 
which a number of other matters found mention : 

“The man who was found at the bottom of a shaft on 
a range at the Plenteous River and was brought to Prince- 
town to have his injuries attended to, is now conscious 
and in a fair way of recovery. But, whether from a set 
purpose or from the circumstance that his mental powers 
have been impaired from the injuries he received, he is 
singularly reticent about the affair. He has volunteered 


228 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


no information, and his answers to questions addressed 
to him throw no light upon the mystery. It is expected 
that several weeks will elapse before he can recover his 
strength. Meanwhile we have to record that gold has 
been found in paying quantities in the banks of the river 
and in the adjacent ranges, and it is calculated that there 
are already five hundred men at work there. Gold is also 
being discovered in various parts of the country between 
Princetown and the river, and a great many diaims are 
being profitably worked. The rush of gold-diggers to 
Princetown continues, and men are pouring in every day. 
Yesterday the gold escort took down 4,300 ounces; it is 
expected that this quantity will be doubled next week. 
Our enterprising townsman, Mr. John Jones, of the famous 
Beehive Stores, is having a wooden building erected in 
which his extensive business will in future be transacted. 
We direct the attention of our readers to Mr. Jones’ adver- 
tisement on our front page. The enterprising proprietor 
of the Royal Hotel has determined to construct a movable 
theatre, also of wood, which will be put up every evening 
in the cattle sale-yards adjoining his hotel when the sales 
of the day are over, and taken down after every perform- 
ance to allow of the sales being resumed the next morning. 
This is a novel idea, and will be crowned with success. 
A first-class company is on its way to Princetown, and it 
is announced that the first performance will be given in a 
fortnight. Fuller particulars of these matters will be 
found in other columns. Our readers will observe that 
we have doubled the size of the Princetown Argus , which 
now consists of four pages. We have ordered an entire 
new plant, and upon its arrival shall still further enlarge 
our paper. Our motto is Onward.” 

It will be seen from these extracts that Newman Chaytor 
had carried out his cruel scheme to what he believed and 
hoped would be the end of the comrade he had plotted 
against and betrayed. But what man proposes sometimes 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


22 9 


fails in its purpose, and it was so in this instance. The 
merciful arrival of the two gold-diggers upon the scene 
saved Basil's life. 

This last act of Chaytor’s was easily accomplished. 
While Basil slept he crawled to the shaft, and by the 
moon’s light weakened the strands of the rope some ten 
feet down. Then he crawled back to his bed, and tossed 
to and fro till the dawn of day. 

“ We’ll* work the claim till the end of the week,” he said 
to Basil over breakfast, “and if it turns out no better, we 
will try the banks of the river again.” 

“ Very well,” said Basil. “I am truly sorry I don’t 
bring you better luck, but we have something to go on 
with, at all events.” 

They walked to the shaft together, and Basil prepared 
to descend. Grasping the rope, he looked up at Chaytor, 
and Chaytor smiled at him. He responded with a cheer- 
ful look, for although the hopes in which he had indulged 
of returning to England with a fortune were destroyed, 
he had not abandoned his wish to leave the colony. He 
was sick of the life he was leading, and he yearned for a 
closer human sympathy. His share of the gold they had 
obtained would be close upon five hundred pounds — that 
was something ; if would enable him to take passage 
home, to find Annette perhaps, to see and speak with her 
and renew the old bond ; and, if the worst happened, if he 
could not find Annette, or found her only to learn that the 
woman was different from the child, he could come back 
to Australia and live out his life there. 

“Don’t lose heart,” he said to Chaytor; “we may strike 
the vein again this week. There’s a bright future before 
you, I am certain.” 

“I half believe so myself,” said Chaytor; “hoping 
against hope, you know.” And thought, “ Will he never 
go down ? ” 

Basil gave one upward look at the floating clouds and 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


230 

descended. Chaytor bent over the mouth of the shaft, 
looked down, and listened. 

“ Is the rope firm ? ” Basil called out. 

“Quite firm,” said Chaytor. 

Then there came a terrified scream, and the sound of 
a heavy body falling. Then — silence. 

Chaytor, with white face and lips tightly set, still bent 
over the mouth of the shaft, still looked down the dark 
depths, still listened. Not a sound — not even a groan. 

“It is done/’ he muttered. 

He pulled up the severed rope, and thought that it 
might have happened without his intervention. He had 
read of a parallel instance, and of the death of a miner in 
consequence. 

“That was an accident,” he said, “ as this is. The 
rope would have given way without my touching it. Such 
things occur all over the world. Look at the colliery 
accidents at home — hundreds of men are killed in them, 
here there is only one.” 

These thoughts were not prompted by compunction ; 
he simply desired to shift the responsibility from his own 
shoulders. It was a miserable subterfuge, and did not 
succeed. In the first flush of his crime its shadow haunted 
him. 

He let the rope fall from his hand down the shaft. “I 
could not go to him,” he said, “if I wanted. How quiet 
he is ! ” 

A mad impulse seized him. 

“Basil ! Basil ! ” he cried in his loudest tone ; and as 
no reply reached him, he said, looking around, “Well, 
then, is it my fault that he does not answer me ? ” 

He paced to and fro, a dozen steps this way, a dozen 
that, counting his steps. Fifty times at least he did 
this, always with the intention of going to the tent or the 
river, and always being drawn back to the mouth of the 
shaft, over which he hung and lingered. It possessed g, 
horrible fascination for frini. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


231 

“ I will go this time,” he said, but he could not. He 
remained an hour — the longest hour in his life. At length 
he went down to the river, and as he gazed upon it 
thought, “ Men die by drowning. What does it matter 
the kind of death? Death, is death: it is always the 
same.” 

The interminable hours lagged on till night came. He 
sat in the tent weighing the gold and getting ready for 
flight. Once in Sydney he would take the first ship 
for England. The flickering candle cast monstrous 
shadows upon the walls and ceiling, and in his nervous 
state he shrank shudderingly from them, and strove to 
ward them off, as though they were living forms hover- 
ing about him with fell intent. The silence appalled him : 
he would have given gold for the piping of a little bird. 

Thus passed the miserable night, and in the morning 
he visited the shaft again. The same awful stillness 
reigned. 

“ It is all over,” he said. “Newman Chaytor is dead ; 
I, Basil Whittingham, live. No man will ever know. 
Now for England.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Occasionally in a man’s life comes a pause : as between 
the acts of a drama action slumbers awhile — only that the 
march through life’s season never halts. The pulse of 
time throbs silently and steadily until the natural span is 
reached, or is earlier snapped, and the bridge between 
mortality and immortality is crossed. Meanwhile the 
man grows older — that is all. For him upon the tree of 
experience there is neither blossom nor bloom ; bare 
branches spread out, naked of hope, and he gazes upon 
them in dumb wonderment or despair. The hum of wood- 
land life, the panorama of wondrous color, the unceasing 


232 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


growth of life out of death, the warlike sun, the breath of 
peace in moon and stars, the eternal paean that all nature 
sings, bear no message to his soul. He walks, he eats, 
he sleeps, and waits unconsciously for the divine touch 
that shall arouse him from his trance. 

Something of this kind occurred to Basil. Recovering 
from the physical injuries he had sustained, he sank into 
an apathetic state which, but for some powerful incentive, 
might have been morally fatal. Friends he had none, or 
the effort might have been made ; so for a year after New- 
man Chaytor had left Australia he plodded aimlessly on, 
working for wages which kept him in food, and desiring 
notjiing more. Upon the subject of his mate’s desertion 
he preserved silence, as indeed he did upon most other 
subjects, but it might reasonably have been expected that 
upon this theme in which he was directly interested he 
would have been willing to open his mind. It was not 
so. To questions addressed to him he returned brief and 
unsatisfactory answers, and after a time nothing further 
was asked of him. Curiosity died out ; if he chose to keep 
himself aloof it was his business, and in the new world 
as in the old, every man’s affairs were sufficient to occupy 
him without troubling himself about strangers. Thus it 
would appear that the scheme upon which Newman Chay- 
tor had bent all his energies was destined to be in every 
way successful. 

With respect to the desertion and the disappearance of 
the gold, an equal share of which was rightfully and law- 
fully his, Basil had arrived at a definite conclusion. He 
entertained no doubt that the rope had broken naturally . 
suspicion of foul play did not cross his mind. He argued 
that Chaytor, believing him to be dead, had taken 
the gold and left the claim they had been working in dis- 
gust. “ He made no secret,” thought Basil, “ that he was 
sick of the life we were leading. To have gone away 
and left my share of the gold behind him — I being, as he 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


233 


supposed, dead — would have been an act of folly. I do 
not blame him ; good-luck go with him. He stuck to me 
to the last, and proved himself my friend when most I 
needed one. Let my life go on as it will ; I will think 
nothing and say nothing to his injury.” A vindictive man 
would have argued otherwise, would have thought that it 
was at least a comrade’s duty, before he left the spot, to 
convince himself by ocular proof that the fall was fatal. 
But Basil was not vindictive ; he believed he had the best 
of reasons to be grateful to Chaytor, and if the gold his 
mate had taken was any repayment for services ren- 
dered in the past, he was welcome to it. The strong 
moral principle in Basil’s nature kept him from yielding 
to temptations against which not all men struggle success- 
fully when misfortune persistently dogs them. He led 
an honest life of toil, without ambition to lift himself to a 
higher level. But happily an awakening was in store for 
him, and it came through the sweetest and most human- 
ising of influences. 

Princetown throve apace ; its promise was fulfilled, and 
twenty thousand men found prosperous lodgment therein. 
The majority delved, the minority traded, most of them 
throve. To be sure some were unfortunate, and some 
idled and dissipated, but this must always be expected. 
New leads were discovered, quartz reefs were opened, 
crushing machines were put up, streets were formed, a fire 
brigade was established, a benevolent institution and a 
lunatic asylum were founded. Not even a mushroom town 
in these new countries can exist without something in the 
shape of a municipal council, and one was formed in 
Princetown, over the elections for which there was prodi- 
gious excitement. Churches and chapels, even a syna- 
gogue, were erected by voluntary contributions, and there 
were churchyards in which already wanderers found rest. 
All the important buildings were now of wood, and there 
was a talk of stone, the primal honor of erecting which 


234 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


was presently to fall to John Jones, the enterprising pro- 
prietor of the Only Beehive. The Princetown Argus shared 
in the general prosperity. First a weekly, then a bi-weekly, 
then a tri-weekly, finally a daily. First, two pages, the 
size of the Globe , then four pages ditto, finally four pages, 
the size of the Times. Not a bad sample of enterprise this. 
The Saturday edition was eight pages, to serve the purpose 
of a weekly as well as a daily, and in it was published a 
novel, “to be continued in our next, ,, which the editor 
took from a London monthly magazine, and for which, 
in the innocence of his heart, he paid nothing. Of course 
there was an opposition journal, but the Princetown Argus 
had taken the lead, and kept it in the face of all newcomers 
The shrewd editor and proprietor did one piece of business 
with a more than usually obstinate rival which deserves 
to be recorded. He bought up an opposition paper, the 
Princetown Herald , whose politics were the reverse of 
those he advocated, and for a considerable time he ran 
the two papers on their original lines, each attacking the 
other’s principles and policy with fierce zest and vigor. 
Thus he occupied both fields of public opinion, and threw 
sops to all who took an interest in local and colonial poli- 
tics. And here a word in the shape of information which 
will surprise many readers. England is overrun with news- 
papers ; the United States is more than overrun, having 
nearly three to our one ; but in journalistic enterprise Aus- 
tralasia beats the record, having, in proportion to popula- 
tion, more newspapers than any other country in the 
world. An astonishing fact. 

Two circumstances must be mentioned which bear 
upon our story. The first is that Basil’s surname was not 
known ; he called himself Basil, and was so called. The 
second is that in the column of the Princetown Argus in 
which births, marriages, and deaths were advertised, there 
was recorded the birth and death of a baby, the child of 
the editor and his wife, born one day and dying the next. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


*35 

This was the first birth and burial in Princetown. The 
child left to them, the little girl of whom we have already 
spoken, whose name was Edith, took the loss of her baby 
sister much to heart, and never a week passed that she did 
not visit the churchyard and sit by the tiny grave. 

At the end of twelvemonths or so there came to Prince- 
town a preacher of extraordinary power. He was rough, 
he was uncultivated, he had not been educated for the 
pulpit, but he could stir the masses and wake up sleeping 
souls. He had a marvellous magnetism and tremendous 
earnestness, which silenced the scoffer and made the sin- 
ner tremble ; the consequence was that sinners and scof- 
fers went to hear him, and some few were made better 
by his denunciations. There are souls which can be 
reached only through fear. Happily there are more which 
can be reached through love. 

Amongst those who were drawn to listen to the preacher 
was Basil, and being once present he did not miss a ser- 
vice. One Sabbath the preacher took sluggishness for his 
theme, which he denounced, in its physical and moral 
attributes, as a sin, the consequences of which were not 
to be avoided. Men were sent into the world to work, to 
fulfil duties, and to seek both assiduously. It was not 
only sinful, it was cowardly, to put on the armor of indo- 
lence and indifference, and to so intrench oneself was de- 
structive of the highest qualities of humanity, the exercise 
of which lifted men above the level of the beasts of the 
field. To say, because one is unfortunate, “Oh, what is 
the use of striving?’’ tends to rob life of nobility and 
heroism. To fight the battle manfully to the last, to keep 
one’s heart open to humanizing influences, however poor 
the return which proffered love and sympathy and charity 
may meet with, is the work of a man and brings its re- 
ward. He has striven, he has proved himself, he has 
established his claim to the higher life. To live only for 
the day, to be indifferent to the morrow, is a quality by 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


236 

which animals without reason are distinguished, and to 
share with them in this respect is a cowardly and sinful 
degradation. “If” (said the preacher) “there are any 
here .who have fallen so low, I say to them, Arouse your- 
selves ; take down the shutters which darken heart and 
soul ; admit the light which purifies and sweetens. Be 
men, not brutes/' 

This was the sum of his sermon. Few understood it, 
but they did not perhaps value it the less highly on that 
account. To Basil it came as a reproach; he quivered 
under the strokes, and left the place of worship with a 
beating heart, with tumultuous thoughts in his mind. 
Scarcely noting whither he was going he walked towards 
the churchyard, and there, in the distance, sitting by a 
grave, he saw a child. It was Edith sitting by the grave 
of her baby sister. 

The scene, the attitude, brought Annette’s form to his 
mind. So used she to sit by her mother’s grave on the plan- 
tation, and he had accompanied her and sat by her side. 
He looked about for flowers ; there were none near ; but 
when he approached Edith he saw that she had some in 
her lap, and was weaving them into a garland, as Annette 
had done in a time really not so very long ago, but which 
seemed to belong to another life. She looked up at him, 
and the tenderness of her gaze touched him deeply ; in- 
stantly on her countenance was reflected the sad wistfulness 
which dwelt on his. Children are peculiarly receptive ; they 
meet your smiles with smiles, your sadness with sadness. 

. Edith just shifted her little body, conveying in the slight 
movement an invitation to Basil to sit beside her. He in- 
stantly took his place close to her, and they fell naturally 
into conversation. 

“ What is your name, little one?” 

“ Edith. Tell me yours. I like you.” 

“ My name is Basil.” 

“ I like that, too. Here is a flower for you.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


237 


“ Where did you gather them, Edith ? ” 

“ We have a garden. Father says it puts him in mind 
of home.” 

‘ ‘ Who is your father ? ” 

“ Don’t you know ? Everybody else does. He is the 
editor of the Princetown Argus. You know that, don’t 
you ? ” 

“ Yes. And you have a mother ? ” 

“Oh, yes. She is very clever.” Basil nodded. 
“ Father says she is the cleverest woman in the whole 
world. She can make clothes, she can cook, she knows 
all about flowers, she can write paragraphs for the paper, 
and when they are written she can print them.” 

“ That is a great deal for your mother to do. Does she 
really help to print the newspaper ? ” 

“ Not no w. She did when we first came here. But father 
has a great many gentlemen printers in the office, and 
they do all that. These are English flowers. The seeds 
came all the way from England where I was born ; but 
I don’t remember it, because I was only a little baby when 
we came over in a great big ship. I don’t remember 
the ship either, but I know all about it because mother 
has told me about the great storm, and how we were 
nearly wrecked, and how the ship was battered to pieces 
almost.” 

“ The English flo^yers put your father in mind of home. 
That is England ? ” 

“ Yes, that is England. When we’re very rich we’re 
going back there. Do you know where it is ? ” 

“ I come from England.” 

“ That is nice. Like us. Are you going back ? ” 

“ I cannot say.” 

“ Why ? Because you don’t know ? ” 

“ That is the reason perhaps.” 

“ You see,” said Edith, arranging some flowers on the 
grave in the shape of a cross, “ there are so many people 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


238 

there we love. Two grandfathers, two grandmothers, 
and such a lot of cousins I’ve never seen. England must 
be very, very beautiful. Father and mother call it home, 
and when I write I always say, ‘We are coming home 
one day . 7 We're goingtohave a fig-tree ; father says we 
shall sit under it. ” Basil smiled. “ I like you to smile ; 
you don't look so unhappy then. What makes you un- 
happy ? You mustn’t be. You must go home with us 
and see the people you love.” 

“Suppose there are none, little Edith.” 

She gazed at him solemnly. “Not even an angel?” 
she asked. 

“An angel ! ” he exclaimed, somewhat startled. 

“Yes, an angel. One was here once.” She had com- 
pleted the cross of flowers, and she pointed to the 
grave. “ Only for a little while, and when we go home 
she is coming with us. She came from heaven to us just 
for one night only ; I was asleep and didn't see her ; I 
was so sorry. Then they brought her here, and she flew 
straight up to heaven. I can’t go up there to give her 
the English flowers, so I lay them here where she can 
see them, and when I come again and the flowers are 
gone, I know that she has taken them away and put them 
in a jug of water — up there. Mother says flowers never 
die in heaven, so baby sister must have a lot. I dream 
of her sometimes ; I wish you could see her as I do. 
There's a picture of a baby angel over my bed, and she is 
just like that. Such beautiful large gray eyes — my eyes are 
gray — and shining wings. We love each other dearly.” 

“ I hope that will always be, little Edith.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, it will be. When you love once you love always ; 
that is what mother says, and she never says anything 
wrong. I wish you had an angel.” 

“ I had one once.” 

“ Why, then you have one now. Once means always. 
Was she a little girl? ” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


239 


“Yes.” 

“ Like our angel. I am glad. Now you must come 
and see mother, and father.” She rose and took his hand. 

“They do not know me, Edith.” 

“But / know you, and you know me. You must 
come.” 

“Yes, I will come. May I take one flower from your 
cross ? ” 

“Yes.” 

He selected one and kissed it, and they walked together 
side by side. The preacher had said, “Takedown the 
shutters which darken heart and soul ; admit the light 
which purifies and sweetens.” It was done, and the light 
was shining in Basil’s heart. He clung to the little hand 
which was clasped in his. In that good hour it was in- 
deed a Divine link which reunited him once more to 
what was best and noblest. The shadows were dying 
away. Dark days were before him, strange experiences 
were to be his, but in the darkest day of the future a star 
was always to shine. “Annette, Annette, Annette,” he 
whispered. “I will make an endeavor to see you. I 
will never again lose faith. A weight has gone from my 
heart.” 

“Let me kiss the flower where you kissed it,” said 
Edith. 

He put it to her lips, and she kissed it, and raised her 
face innocently. He stooped and kissed her lips. 

“I think,” said Edith, contemplatively, “I like you 
better than any one else except mother, and father, and 
baby angel.” 

The office of the Princetown Argus was now an exten- 
sive building, all on one floor; architects had not yet 
reached higher flights. The door from the street opened 
midway between two rooms, the one to the right being 
that in which advertisements and orders for subscriptions 
were taken, the one to the left being used for book-keeper, 


240 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


editor, and reporters indiscriminately. The reporting staff 
did a great part of their work standing ; there were only a 
desk and a stool for the book-keeper, who assisted in the 
reading of proofs, and a table and two chairs for the ac- 
commodation of the editor and sub-editor. Adjoining 
these two rooms in the rear was the composing-room of 
the newspaper, in the rear of that the jobbing-room, in 
the rear of that the press-room. The living apartments of 
the editor and his little family were quite at the end of 
the building, and were really commodious — sitting-room 
kitchen, and two sleeping-rooms, one for little Edith, the 
other for her parents. In the sitting-room there was a 
piano upon which every member of the family could play 
with one finger, and there were framed chromos on the 
walls, and sufficient accommodation in the shape of chairs 
and tables. The mantelpiece was embellished with an 
extensive array of photographs, of grandfathers, grand- 
mothers, uncles, aunts, and cousins ; and the floor was 
covered with red baize. Taking it altogether it was an ele- 
gant bode for a new goldfield, and Edith’s garden, upon 
which the window of her bedroom looked out, imparted to 
it an air of refinement and sweetness exceedingly pleasant 
to contemplate. When Edith, still holding Basil’s hand, 
passed through the business rooms and entered the sitting- 
room, the happy editor and proprietor was alone, his wife 
being busy in the kitchen getting dinner ready. Domestic 
servants were the rarest of birds in Princetown ; indeed 
there were none in the private establishments, for as soon 
as a girl ora woman made her appearance in the township 
there was a “ rush” for her, and before she had been there a 
week she had at least a dozen offers of marriage. A single 
woman was worth her weight in gold — Princetown was 
a veritable paradise for spinsters of any age, from fifteen 
to fifty. Small wonder that they turned up their noses 
at domestic service, when by merely crooking their little 
finger they could become their own mistress, picking and 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


241 


choosing from a host of amorous gold-diggers. Free and 
easy was the wedding; the eating and drinking, the pop- 
ping of corks, the drive through the principal streets, the 
indiscriminate invitations to all, the dancing at night, 
with more popping of corks and the cracking of revolvers 
in the open air to proclaim to the world that an “event ” 
of supreme importance was being celebrated — all tended 
to show the value of woman as a marketable commodity. 
Two or three miles away, in a gully or upon a hill, 
wiis the canvas tent to which the bridegroom bore his 
bride an hour or two this or that side of midnight, — 
literally bore her often, because of the open shafts which 
dotted the road ; and there the married life commenced. 
It is a lame metaphor to say that woman ruled the roost ; 
she ruled everything, and was bowed down to and wor- 
shipped as woman never was before in the history of the 
world. 

The editor looked up as his little daughter and Basil 
entered, and Edith immediately took upon herself the 
office of mistress of the ceremonies. 

“ This is Basil, father. The editor nodded. “He is 
going to spend the whole day with us.” 

“He is welcome,” said the editor, who knew Basil by 
sight. 

Basil smilingly explained that little Edith had taken 
entire possession, and was responsible for his intrusion. 

“ But you are not intruding,” said the editor. “We 
shall be very pleased of your, company. Our hive is ruled 
by a positive Queen Bee, and there she stands” — with an 
affectionate look at his daughter, who accepted her title 
with amusing gravity — “so that we cannot exactly help 
ourselves. ” 

His tone was exceedingly cordial, and Basil, being 
heartily welcomed by Edith’s mother, soon made him- 
self at home. The young man’s manners were very 
winning, and afforded pleasure to Edith’s parents, who 


242 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


had not, at least on the goldfields, met with a guest of 
so much culture and refinement. Regarding Basil as 
her special property, Edith pretty well monopolized his 
attention in the intervals between meals, but sufficient of 
Basil’s character was revealed to the editor to set him 
thinking. He saw that he was entertaining a gentleman 
and a man of attainments, and he felt how valuable 
such an assistant would be on the editorial staff of his 
newspaper. The journalists in his employ had sprung 
out of the rough elements of colonial life, and although 
they were fairly capable men, they lacked the polish 
which Basil possessed. The result of his reflections 
was that before the day was out he made Basil a busi- 
ness proposition. 

“It occurs to me,” said the shrewd fellow, “that you 
are not exactly cut out for a digger’s life. ” 

“ I am afraid you are right,” said Basil, with a smile 
in which a touch of sadness might be detected. 

“ Why not try something else ? ” asked the editor. 

“It is difficult to know what,” replied Basil; “there 
are so few things for which I am fitted. ” 

“There is one in which you would make your mark.” 

“ May I know what it is ? I may differ from you ; but 
it would be a pleasant hearing.” 

“Sub-editor of the Princetown Argus , for instance,” 
suggested the editor, coming straight to the point. He 
was not the kind of man to take two bites at a cherry. 

Basil looked him in the face ; the proposition startled 
and gratified him. “You rush at a conclusion some- 
what hastily,” he said. 

“Not at all. I know what I am talking about. You 
are cut out for just that position.” 

“I have never done anything in the literary way.” 

“I’ll take the risk,” said the editor. “A man may go 
floundering about all his life without falling into his 
proper groove. You are not bound to any other en- 
gagement in Princetown ?” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


*43 


“ To none. I am quite free.” 

“And you can commence at once?” 

“If you are serious.” 

“ I was never more so. It might be agreeable to you 
to take up your quarters with us. In two days I will have 
a sleeping apartment built for you, adjoining our little 
bit of garden. You are a sociable man and a gentleman, 
and we should be glad to have you at our table. From 
your conversation I should say you have had a classical 
education. Am I right ? ” 

“Quite right ; but I am not a very bright scholar. You 
must not expect great things.” 

“ I expect what you are able to supply; you haven’t 
half enough confidence in yourself. Why, if I had your 
advantages— but never mind, I haven’t done badly with 
my small stock of brains. We’ll wake them up.” He 
rubbed his hands. “You will be a bit strange at first, 
but I’ll put you in the way of things. I look upon it as 
settled. ” 

“ Would it not be prudent,” said Basil, “ for you to take 
a little time for consideration ? ” 

“Not an hour; not a minute. Strike while the iron’s 
hot. My dear sir, this is a go-ahead country. Shake 
hands on the bargain.” 

They shook hands upon it, and immediately afterwards 
the editor regarded Basil with a thoughtful air, and said, 

“ You puzzle me; you do not ask anything about 
terms. ” 

“ I am content to leave them to you. Wait till you see 
whether I am worth anything.” 

“ No, the risk is mine, as I have said. Will six pounds 
a week and board and lodging suit you ? ” 

“ It is too much.” 

“You will be satisfied with it for the first month?” 

* “More than satisfied.” 

“It is arranged, then. If we continue together you shall 


244 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


have an advance at the end of the month, and I shall 
bind you down not to leave me without a month’s notice. ’’ 

“On my part, I will be so bound. You are free to dis- 
charge me without notice.” 

“It shall be the same for both of us. As you are to 
commence to-morrow you might think of a subject for a 
4 leader ’ in Tuesday’s paper. By Wednesday your bed- 
room will be ready, and you can live with us as long as 
you are on the staff. We shall have reason to congratu- 
late ourselves on the arrangement we have made/' 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

Certainly neither Basil nor his employer had reason to 
be otherwise. It led to important results in Basil’s career, 
and in years to come he often thought of the child, the 
chance meeting with whom in the churchyard conducted 
him, by both straight and devious paths, to a goal which 
he had not dared to hope he would ever reach. Between 
him and Edith loving links were soon firmly forged which 
time was never to sever. This sweet and human bond 
was of inestimable value to Basil ; it raised him from the 
slough of despond into which he had sunk ; the hand of a 
little child lifted him to a man’s height. He was pro- 
foundly grateful ; he had now a happy home, he had con- 
genial work to do. The doubts he had entertained of his 
fitness for the position were dispelled in a very short time. 
He threw himself with ardor and animation into his new 
duties, which he performed in a manner that more than 
justified the confidence reposed in him. Nominally sub- 
editor, but really editor of the paper, he infused into its 
columns a spirit of intelligence which made it more popu- 
lar than ever. It was talked of as an example of what a 
newspaper should be, and Basil’s opinions upon colonial 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


245 

matters were quoted in the more influential journals in 
the colonies as those of a man of far-seeing judgment. A 
classical allusion now and then added to the value of 
Basils writings, and all Princetown was proud of him 
because of the vicarious distinction conferred, through 
him, upon its inhabitants. “A clever fellow that/’ said 
John Jones, of the Only Beehive, appreciating Basil the 
more because of his own utter ignorance of the classics. 
There was a talk of Basil’s representing the division in the 
Legislative Assembly, but he promptly set that aside by 
emphatically declaring that he had no desire for public 
life or parliamentary honors. Thus six months passed 
by, when a revelation was made to him which caused 
him to carry out a resolve deplored by all Princetown. 

The official quarters of the township, where public 
business was transacted, was known as the Government 
Camp. In this camp, which was laid out upon the slope of 
a hill, were situated the Magistrates’ Court, the buildings 
in which the mounted troopers lodged, where the gold 
escort was made up, where miners’ disputes were ad- 
justed, and where miners paid their yearly sovereign for 
miners’ rights, which gave lawful sanction to their delv- 
ing for the precious metal and appropriating the treasure 
they extracted from the soil. There were swells in the 
Government Camp, members of good families in the old 
country, for whom something in the shape of official 
employment had to be found. It is pleasant to be able to 
record that there were few sinecures among these appoint- 
ments, most of the holders having to do something in the 
shape of work for their salaries. It was when Basil had 
served on the staff of the Princetown Argus for a space of 
six months, and had saved during that period a matter of 
two hundred pounds, that a new Goldfields’ Warden made 
his appearance at the Government Camp. The name of 
this gentleman was Majoribanks, and when we presently 
part with him he will play no further part in our story ; 


246 BASIL AND ANNETTE . 

but it will be seen that the small role he fills in it is 
sufficiently pregnant. 

Mr. Majoribanks was “a new chum” in the colony. 
Arriving in the capital with high credentials, the influence 
of his connections provided him almost immediately with 
a berth to which a good salary, with pickings, was 
attached. The position of Goldfields’ Warden on Prin-ce- 
town was vacant, and he was appointed to it. His special 
fitness for the office need not here be discussed. Many 
members of good families in England, whose wild ways 
rendered desirable their removal to another sphere, de- 
veloped faculties in Australia which elevated them into 
respectable members of society, which they certainly 
would not have been had they remained in the old world, 
surrounded by temptations. Mr. Majoribanks was not a 
bad fellow at bottom, and it was a fortunate day for him 
and his family when they exchanged farewell greetings. 

There were not many gentlemen — in Mr. Majoribanks’ 
understanding of the term — in Princetown, and when the 
new Goldfields’ Warden came in contact with Basil he 
recognized the superior metal in the hero of our story. 
The casual acquaintance they formed ripened into inti- 
macy, and they met often in Mr. Majoribanks’ quarters 
and passed many a pleasant hour together. 

“ Come and have a smoke this evening,” said Mr. Ma- 
joribanks to Basil one Saturday afternoon. 

Saturday was the only day in the week which Basil 
could call his own, and he was glad of the invitation and 
accepted it. Mr. Majoribanks knew Basil only, as others 
knew him, by the name of Basil, and had not taken the 
trouble to inquire whether it was a surname. So the two 
gentlemen sat in Mr. Majoribanks’ snug quarters on this 
particular Saturday, and discussed a dainty little meal, 
cooked in faultless style by the Goldfields’ Warden’s Chi- 
nese cook. The meal finished, they adjourned to the ver- 
andah, and lit their cigars. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


247 


They had much in common ; they had travelled over 
familiar country in Europe, and they compared notes, 
recalling- experiences of old times which, in their likeness 
to each other, drew them closer together. 

“Upon my soul,” remarked Mr. Majoribanks, “it is 
an exceedingly pleasant thing to find one’s self in the 
company of a gentleman. It makes banishment endur- 
able. Do you ever think of returning to England ? ” 

“ One day, perhaps,” replied Basil. 

“ I hope- we shall meet there,” said Mr. Majoribanks. 
“Is it allowable to ask what brought you out to the gold- 
fields ? ” 

“I lost my fortune,” said Basil, “and not knowing 
what to turn my hand to, came to Australia to make 
another. ” 

“Is it again allowable to ask whether you have suc- 
ceeded ? ” 

“I have not'Succeeded.” 

“ If you had been a bricklayer or a navvy in England 
you might tell a different tale.” 

“It is not unlikely.” 

“A gentleman stands but little chance here,” observed 
Mr. Majoribanks. “We are treated in the colonies to a 
complete reversal of the proper order of things. I sup- 
pose in the course of time Australia will cut itself away 
from the old country and become a republic.” 

“ It is certainly on the cards, but it will be a long time 
before that occurs ; there are so many different interests, 
you see.” 

“A jumble of odd elements,” said Mr. Majoribanks. 

“When there is a real Australian population,” said Basil 
“men and women born and living here, with no remin- 
iscences of what is now called ‘ home ’ then the movement 
of absolute self-government will take serious form.” 

“Ah, well, I don’t believe in the self-made man. I 
stick to the old order.” 


248 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“ Individual opinion will not change the current of nat- 
ural changes. It is not to be expected that this vast con- 
tinent will be for ever satisfied to remain a dependency of 
a kingdom so many thousands of miles away. The talk 
about federation may satisfy for a time, but it is merely 
a sop in the pan. By-and-by will come the larger ques- 
tion of a nation with an autonomous constitution like 
the United States. Children cut themselves from their 
mothers’ apron strings ; so it will be with these colonies.” 

“You have made a study of such matters.” • 

“To some extent. My position on our local paper has 
sent me in that direction. ” 

“ You like your position ? ” 

“Tolerably well. I cannot say I am wedded to it, but 
I must not be ungrateful. ” 

Then the conversation drifted into channels more 
personal. Mr. Majoribanks launched into a recital of 
certain experiences in England and the Continent, and 
mourned the break in a career more congenial to him than 
that of Goldfields’ Warden in Princetown, which he de- 
clared to be confoundedly dull and uninteresting. He 
missed his theatres, his clubs, his race meetings, his 
fashionable society, and many a sigh escaped him as he 
dwelt upon these fascinating themes. Then occurred a 
pause, and some sudden reminiscence, as yet untouched, 
caused him to regard his companion with more than 
ordinary curiosity. 

“An odd idea strikes me,” he said. “Have you a 
twin brother ? ” 

“ No,” replied Basil, smiling. “ What makes you ask ? ” 

“No, of course that is not likely,” said Mr. Majoribanks. 
If you had a twin brother his name would not be Basil. It 
is singular for all that. But it is a most extraordinary like- 
ness. A cousin of yours, perhaps?” 

“ I haven’t the slightest idea of your meaning. I have 
no cousins that I am aware of.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


249 


“ It has only just struck me. As I looked at you a mo- 
ment ago I saw the wonderful resemblance between you 
and a man I met in Paris. Basil is not a very common 
name. ” 

“Not very. Had the gentleman you met in Paris an- 
other tacked to it ? ” 

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Majoribanks. “ Whittingham.” 

“ Whittingham!” exclaimed Basil, greatly startled. 

“Basil Whittingham — that is the gentlemans full 
name ; and, by the way, I was told, I remember, that 
he had been in Australia, gold-digging. It is a curious 
story — but you seem excited.” 

“ With good cause,” said Basil. “ My name is Basil 
Whittingham. ” 

“You don’t say so?” 

“ It is a fact.” 

“Well, that makes it all the stranger.” 

Basil rose and paced the verandah in uncontrollable 
excitement. The full significance of this extraordinary 
revelation did not immediately dawn upon him, and at 
present he did not connect Newman Chaytor with it. Out 
of the chaos of thought which stirred his mind he evoked 
nothing intelligible. Mr. Majoribanks’ eyes followed him 
as he paced to and fro, and fixed themselves frankly upon 
him when he paused and faced him. 

“Were you aware that my name is Whittingham?” 
asked Basil. 

“Upon my honor, no,’ replied Mr. Majoribanks. 

“There is some mystery here,” said Basil, mastering 
his excitement, “which it seems imperative should be 
solved. As you remarked, Basil is not a common name ; 
neither is Whittingham ; and that the two should be asso- 
ciated in the person of a man who bears so wonderful a 
resemblance to me that you would have taken us to be 
twin brothers, makes it all the more mysterious and inex- 
plicable.* You are not joking with me ? ” 


250 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


“As I am a gentleman, I have told you nothing but 
the truth. There are such things as coincidences, you 
know. ” 

“ Yes ; but if this is one, it is the strangest I have ever 
heard of.” 

“ It has all the appearance of it,” said Mr. Majoribanks, 
thoughtfully. 

“Within my knowledge there are only two men bear- 
ing the name of Whittingham — one, myself, the other an 
uncle in England, with whom, unfortunately, I had some 
differences of opinion.” 

“Ah,” said Mr. Majoribanks, “the coincidences con- 
tinue. The gentleman I refer to had an uncle of the name 
of Whittingham, with whom he also had some differences 
of opinion.” 

“ Had an uncle? ” 

“Who is dead,” said Mr. Majoribanks. 

“ My uncle was a gentleman of fortune.” 

“So was his.” 

“I was to have been his heir. I displeased him, and 
he disinherited me. That was really the reason why I 
left England for Australia.” 

Mr. Majoribanks fell back in his chair, and said, “You 
take my breath away.” 

“Why?” 

“Why? Because that is the sum total of the story 
which I said just now was so curious. Mr. Whittingham, 
there must be something more than coincidence in all 
this. ” 

“Oblige me a moment. Let me think.” 

He turned his back upon Mr. Majoribanks, and stead- 
ied himself. By a determined effort he subdued the 
chaos of thought by which he was agitated. The form of 
Newman Chaytor rose before him. Was it possible that 
this man, in whom he had placed implicit trust, who 
knew the whole story of his life, who had deserted him 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


25 


and left him for dead without taking the trouble to assure 
himself that his fall down the shaft was fatal — was it pos- 
sible that this man had played him false? It seemed 
scarcely credible, but what other construction was to be 
placed upon the story which Mr. Majoribanks had re- 
vealed to him? He paused again before his companion, 
and said in his most earnest tone : 

“ Mr. Majoribanks, a vital issue hangs upon the infor- 
mation you have given me. I am sure you will not trifle 
with me. You are a gentleman, and your word is not to 
be doubted. Were you intimately acquainted with this 
double, who bears my name, who so strangely resembles 
me, and whose story is so similar to my own ? ” 

“There was no intimacy whatever, ” said Mr. Majori- 
banks. “I saw him once, and once only, in Paris, and 
we passed an evening together. When I parted from him 
— a party of us went to the Comedie Franfaise that night 
to see Bernhardt — I saw him no more. The way of it 
was this : It being resolved in solemn family council 
that I was to retrieve my battered fortunes in this Sahara, 
I paid a last visit to dear, delightful Paris to bid it a long 
adieu. A friend accompanied me, and a friend of his to 
whom he was under obligations — to speak plainly, a 
money-lender — happening to be in Paris at the same time, 
we chummed together. We dined at the Grand, and 
there, at another table, sat your prototype. Our money- 
lending friend, who knows everything and everybody, 
pointed him out to us, and told us his story. His name 
was Basil Whittingham ; he had been in Australia, gold-dig- 
ging : he had a wealthy uncle of the same surname whom 
he had offended, and who had driven him out of his native 
land, with an intimation that he was to consider himself 
disinherited. Upon his deathbed, however, the old gen- 
tleman's hard heart softened, and he made a will by which 
the discarded nephew was restored to his good graces, 
and became heir to all he possessed. The fortune which 


252 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


fell to your lucky double was not in land and houses ; it 
was in something better, hard cash, and it amounted, so 
far as I can recollect, to not less than between fifty and 
sixty thousand pounds. Whereupon the lucky heir 
winged his way homeward, by which time his uncle had 
joined the majority, and took possession of his windfall. 
Our money-lending friend had some slight acquaintance 
with the heir, and we were introduced. It was a night 
I had occasion to remember, quite apart from any con- 
nection you may have with the story. Do you adhere to 
it that it resembles yours ? ” 

“Up to the day upon which I left England it agrees 
with it entirely. As to what subsequently occurred I 
knew nothing until this moment ” 

“ Well, all that I can say — without understanding in 
the least, mind you, how it could have come about — is, 
that I would look into it, if I were in your place.” 

“It shall be looked into. Do you remember if the 
uncle’s Christian name was mentioned ? ” 

“ I cannot quite say. Refresh my memory; it may 
have been.” 

“Bartholomew.” 

“ Upon my word, now you mention it, I think 
Bartholomew was mentioned. Another uncommon name. ” 

“You have occasion to remember that night, you 
said, apart from me. May I inquire in what way ? ” 

“ Well, when we left the theatre, we adjourned to a 
private room in the Grand, and there we had a little flutter. 
Baccarat was the game, and I was cleaned out. Upon 
my honor, I think I was the most unfortunate beggar 
under the sun. I give you my word that I hadn’t enough 
left to pay my hotel bill, which was the last legacy I left 
my honored father.” 

“Your money-lending friend won the money, I 
suppose ? ” 

“ He won a bit, but the spoil fell principally to an 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


253 


elderly gentleman of the name of — of — of — now whatz*/^ 
the fellow’s name? It wasn’t English, nor was he an 
Englishman. Ah, I have it, Bidaud--yes, Bidaud. ” 

Basil’s face turned white ; there was no longer room 
for doubt that foul treachery had been done. It was 
Newman Chaytor who had plotted and planned for his 
destruction. This he might have borne, and the white 
heat of his anger might have grown cold with time. But 
Anthony Bidaud’s introduction into the bad scheme in- 
cluded also Annette, a possible victim in the treachery. 
That she could become the prey of these villains, and 
that he should allow her life to be ruined, her happiness 
to be blasted, without an effort to save her, was not to be 
thought of. The scales fell from his eyes, and he saw 
Newman Chaytor in his true light. By what crooked paths 
the end had been reached he could not, in the excitement 
of the moment, determine. That would have to be 
thought out presently ; meanwhile his resolution was 
taken. To remain inactive would be the work of a coward. 

“You know the name of Bidaud,” said Mr. Majoribanks. 

“ I know it well,” said Basil. Did this M. Bidaud 
accompany you to the theatre on that night ? ” 

“He did.” 

“ Alone ? ” 

“Alone.” 

“ He and this namesake of mine were companions, I 
take it.” 

“Something more than companions, to all appearance. 
Close friends rather.” 

“ Were they together when my namesake was introduced 
to you ? ” 

“ Yes, but it was not until later in the evening that 
M. Bidaud was introduced.” 

“ Did they appear to be on good terms with each other ? ’ 

“ On the best of terms.” 

“ I hope,” said Basil, “you will excuse me for question- 


254 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


ing you so closely, but this is a matter that very deeply 
affects me. ” 

“My dear fellow/' said Mr. Majoribanks, “you are 
heartily welcome to every scrap of information I can give 
that will throw light upon this most mysterious piece of 
business. It is altogether the strangest thing I ever heard. 
I’ll not ask you who the other fellow is, but I have a faint 
idea that he must be the most unmitigated scoundrel on 
the face of the earth. Tell me as much or as little as you 
please, and in the meantime fire away.” 

“ My namesake was dining at the Grand Hotel when 
you first saw him ? Was M. Bidaud in his company? ” 

“He was; they were dining together at a separate 
table.” 

“Were any ladies with them?” 

“ I’ll not pledge myself. So far as I can recollect, 
there was no one else at the table. ” 

“ Did you hear talk of any ladies of their acquaintance ? ” 

“I think not. Stop, though. I fancy there was an 
allusion to a pretty niece.” 

“ Annette lives,” thought Basil, and said aloud, “ an 
allusion made by M. Bidaud to my namesake?” 

“Yes, I think so.” 

“Who suggested the adjournment to a private room 
after the theatre ? ” 

“The invitation was given by M. Bidaud, and we 
accepted it. I was always ready for that kind of thing — 
too ready, my people say. So off we went, and played 
till daylight, with the aforesaid result.” 

“ Were M. Bidaud and my namesake living permanently 
in Paris ?” 

“I fancy not ; something was said of their travelling 
about for pleasure.” 

“ One more question,” said Basil, “ and I have done, 
There was an allusion to a pretty niece. Are you aware 
whether the young lady was travelling with her uncle ? ” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


255 

“I am not, and I do not remember what the allusion 
was. I think I have completely emptied my budget.” 

“I thank you sincerely; you have rendered me an 
inestimable service. I have no wish to have my affairs 
talked about, and you will add to the obligation if you will 
consider this conversation confidential.” 

“ Certainly, my dear fellow, as you desire it. It is en- 
tirely between ourselves.” 

They parted shortly afterwards, and Basil, plunged in 
thought, returned to the township. The first step he took 
was to consult the file of the Princetown Argus for a 
record of the accident in which he had so nearly lost his 
life. He had heard that its earliest numbers contained 
accounts of his discovery and rescue, but he had not 
hitherto had the curiosity to hunt them up and read them. 
It was now imperative that he should make himself ac- 
quainted with every particular of the affair. He found 
without difficulty what he sought, and as he read through 
the reports of his condition which were published from 
day to day he dwelt upon portions which a year ago he 
would have considered monstrous inventions or exagger- 
ations. Thus: “There is a certain element of mystery 
in the affair, and we shall briefly allude to one or two 
points which seem to have a bearing upon it.” Again : 
“ Inferring that there were two men working the shaft, is 
it possible, when the accident occurred, that the man at 
the top of the shaft made tracks from the place and left his 
mate to a cruel and lingering death?” The inference here 
sought to be established was not to be mistaken — to wit, 
that Newman Chaytor had purposely left him to a cruel 
and lingering death. And still more significant: “An 
opinion has been expressed that the rope has been tampered 
with, and that it did not break from natural wear and tear.” 
Given that the peril into which he had been plunged was 
the result of design, there was more than a seeming con- 
firmation of the opinion that the rope had been tampered 


BAS/L AND ANNETTE. 


256 

with. Basil, being now engaged upon a full consideration 
of the circumstances, remembered that the rope to all 
appearance was perfectly sound. That being so, it was 
Chaytor’s deliberate intention to murder him by weakening 
the strands. When suspicion enters the mind of a man 
who has trusted and been deceived, it is hard to dislodge 
it ; small incidents and spoken words to which no im- 
portance was attached at the time they were uttered, 
present themselves and gather force until they assume a 
dark significance. When Basil laid aside the file of news- 
papers he had arrived at the conclusion that Chaytor had 
deliberately schemed for the fatal end which had been 
averted by the merest accident. Old Corrie’s warnings and 
distrust of Chaytor came to his mind. ‘ ‘ Corrie was right, ” 
thought Basil ; “he read this man better than I did.’’ 

But clear as Chaytor’s villainy had appeared to be, 
there was much that Basil was unable to comprehend. 
In what way had Chaytor discovered that Basil’s uncle 
had repented of his determination to disinherit his nephew ? 
How and by what means had it come to the villain’s 
knowledge ? Upon these and other matters Basil had yet 
to be enlightened. 

He continued his mental search. Chaytor, returning 
to England, had succeeded in obtaining possession of his 
inheritance ; and — what was of still greater weight to 
Basil — he had succeeded in introducing himself to Anthony 
Bidaud as the man he represented himself to be. “There 
was an allusion to a pretty niece.” Then Chaytor was 
with Annette, playing Basils part. Was it likely that 
Annette would be deceived ? Years had passed since they 
had met, and the woman might have reason to doubt her 
childhood’s memories. A cunning plausible villain this 
Newman Chaytor. Successful in imposing upon Annette, 
in wooing and perhaps winning her — Basil groaned at the 
thought — what a future was before her ! There was a 
clear duty before him. To go to England with as little 
delay as possible, and unmask the plot. 


BASIL AMD ANNETTE . 


257 

That night he counted the money he had saved ; it 
amounted to two hundred and thirty pounds. He could 
land in the old country with a hundred and fifty pounds. 
He consulted the exchange newspapers sent to the office. 
In seventeen days a steamer would start from Sydney for 
England. By that vessel he would take his departure. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

The next morning Basil said to the editor, “I fear I am 
about to inflict a disappointment upon you/’ 

“Wants arise of salary/’ thought the editor. “All 
right; he shall have it. ” Aloud he said, “Go ahead.” 

“ I wish you to release me from a promise.” 

“What promise ? ” 

“When we made the engagement it was understood 
that I should not leave you without a month’s notice.” 

“That was so,” said the editor, dryly; and thought 
“He’s going to put the screw upon me that way. I am 
ready for him ; I’ll give him all he asks.” 

“I wish to leave without notice.” The editor was 
silent, and Basil continued: “I am under great obli- 
gations to you ; I have been very happy in your service, 
and I have done my best to please you.” 

“You have pleased me thoroughly ; I hope I have said 
nothing to give you a different impression.” 

“Indeed you have not; no man could have acted 
fairer by me than you have done.” 

“Soft soap,” thought the editor. “Have I been mis- 
taken in him ?” Aloud : “Well, then, I am sure you will 
act fairly by me. I cannot release you.” 

“You must; indeed you must. It is an imperative 
necessity.” 

‘ ‘ I can’t see it. Look here. Are you going to start an 
opposition paper ? ” 


17 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


258 

“I have no intention of doing so. That would be a 
bad return.” 

“It would. Some other fellow, then, is going to start 
an opposition, and has made you a tempting offer. ” 

“ You are wrong. It is upon purely personal grounds 
that I shall have to leave. I am going home.” 

“ Home ! To England ? ” 

“ To England ; and there is vital need of dispatch.” 

“ Hallo ! ” thought the editor, “ he has come into prop- 
erty. I knew he was highly connected.” Aloud : “ Now, 
don’t you be foolish. I am an older man than you, and 
therefore on the face of it, a better judge of things. I 
don’t expect a rise of salary would tempt you to re- 
main.” 

“ It would not.” 

“ Not if I doubled what you are getting? ’’ 

“Not if you were to multiply it by ten.” 

The editor considered before he spoke again. “Come, 
here’s an offer for you. I will take you into partnership. 
You see the value I place upon your services. I’m deal- 
ing fair and square. ” 

“You offer me more than I deserve, more than I accept. 
Nothing can tempt me to remain. I must leave Prince- 
town ; I must leave the colony. I am called home 
suddenly and imperatively. You have been a good 
friend to me ; continue so, I beg, and release me at once. 
You talk of going home some day yourself. If all goes 
well with me we may meet in the old land and renew 
our friendship. You know me well enough, I trust, to 
be satisfied that I would not desire to leave you so 
abruptly without some strong necessity. If you compel 
me to remain ” 

“ Oh ! you admit that I can compel you ? ” 

“The obligation is binding upon me, and if you insist 
upon my giving you a month’s notice it must be done, 
in honor. I cannot break my word.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


259 

“ There speaks the gentleman/’ thought the editor, and 
gazed with admiration at the pleader. 

“But you will be doing me/' continued Basil, “ an 
injury that may be irreparable. The delay may ruin my 
life, and the life of another very dear to me. ” 

“I am a dunderhead/' thought the editor. “There’s 
a young lady mixed up in this.” Aloud: “I should be 
sorry to do that ; but you see the fix you place me in.” 

“It grieves me. I beg you to give me back my 
word. ” 

“It comes so sudden. Why did you not tell me 
before ? ” 

“Because I knew of nothing that called for my hasty 
departure until last night. ” 

“There is something more than a business aspect of 
it. We have grown fond of you.” 

“I have grown fond of you and yours. I shall think 
of you all with affection.” 

The editor was softened. “I will think it over, and let 
you know in the course of the day. ” 

“It is only reasonable,” said Basil, “that you should 
have time for consideration. ” 

The subject was dropped. The editor consulted his 
wife, who was genuinely sorry at the prospect of losing 
Basil. 

“I looked upon him as one of the family,” she said, 
“and it will almost break Edith’s heart to part with him.” 
Then, with a woman’s shrewd wit, she added, “ Let us 
try what Edith can do to persuade him out of his resolu- 
tion.” 

Away went Edith half an hour afterwards to seek 
Basil and argue with him. She found him in the church- 
yard, standing by the grave of the baby angel. 

“ Mother says you are going away,” said the child. 

“Yes, my dear,” said Basil. “I am very, very 
sorry. ” 


26 o 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“Oh! how I shall miss you,” said Edith, the tears 
springing- to her eyes. “Won’t you stay if I ask you ? ” 

“ I cannot, dear child. Dry your eyes. We shall 
meet again by-and-by. ” 

She put her handkerchief to her eyes, but her tears 
flowed fast, and she sat by the grave and sobbed as if her 
heart was breaking. 

“ Listen to me, Edith,” said Basil, sitting beside her and 
taking her hand. “ If baby angel was a long, long way 
from here and was in trouble and cried for you to come 
to her would you not go to help her? ” 

“Yes, I would, I would; and they would take me 
to her. ” 

“I am sure they would, for you have good parents, 
my dear. You told me when I first met you here that I 
had an angel, and that you were glad. Edith, my dear, 
my angel is calling to me to come and help her in her 
trouble. Would it not be very wrong for me to say, 
‘No, I will not come ; I do not care for your trouble ? ’ ” 
“ It would be wicked. ” 

“Yes, dear, it would be wicked, and I should not 
deserve your love if I acted so. When I first saw her she 
was a little girl like you ; you reminded me of her, and 
I loved you because of that, and loved you better after- 
wards because of yourself. I shall always love you, 
Edith; I shall never, never forget you.” 

She threw her arms round his neck and lay in his em- 
brace, sobbing more quietly. 

“You can do something for me, Edith, that will fix 
you in my heart forever.” v 

“Can I? Tell me, and I will do it.” 

“Go to your father and say, ‘You must let Basil go, 
father. His angel is calling for him, and it will be wicked 
if he does not go quickly.’ ” 

“But that will be sending you away from me ! ” 

“ I know it will, my dear : but it will be doing what is 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


261 


right If I remain I shall be very, very unhappy. You 
would not like me to be that? ” 

‘‘No, no ; I want you to be happy.” 

“Make me so, dear child, by doing as I bid you ; and 
one day perhaps you will see my angel, and she shall love 
you as I do.” 

So by artfully affectionate paths he led her to his wish, 
and they went back hand-in-hand. 

“Well,” said the editor to Basil, later in the day, “you 
must have your way. The little plot we laid has failed, 
and Edith says you must go. You are a good fellow, 
and have served me well.” 

“ I sincerely thank you. If I apply to you for a character 
you will give me one.” 

“Indeed I will; the best that man could have. But 
there are conditions to my consent. You must stop till 
Thursday.” 

“I will do that.” 

“And you must act as ‘Our Special Correspondent’ at 
home. A letter once a month.” 

“I promise you.” 

“You have not beaten me entirely, you see,” said the 
editor, good-humoredly. “I shall get something out of 
you. I am pleased we shall part good friends.” 

They shook hands, and passed a pleasant evening to- 
gether. 

The editor had a motive in stipulating that Basil should 
remain till Thursday. He was not going to let such a 
man leave Princetown without some public recognition 
of his merits ; and on the following day Basil received an 
invitation to dine with the townsmen at the principal hotel 
on the night before his departure. He gratefully accepted 
it ; he had worked honestly, and had won his way into 
the esteem of the inhabitants of the thriving township. 

It was a famous gathering, and there was not room for 
all who applied for tickets. John Jones, of the Only Bee- 


262 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


hive, took the chair. On his right sat Basil, on his left, 
Mr. Majoribanks. The Government Camp was worthily 
represented; all the large storekeepers were present, and 
several of the most prosperous miners. It was a gala 
night ; the exterior of the hotel was gay with flags of all 
nations, and the editors wife and Edith had stripped their 
garden of flowers to decorate the table. The Governor 
of the colony could scarcely have been more honored. 

Of course there were speeches, and of course they were 
reported in the Princetown Argus the next morning. Basil’s 
health was proposed by John Jones in magniloquent 
terms, which were cheered to the echo : had Basil’s 
thoughts not been elsewhere, even in the midst of this 
festivity, he would have been greatly amused at the cata- 
logue of virtues with which he was credited by the chair- 
man, but as it was he could not help being touched by 
the evident sincerity of the compliments which were 
showered upon him. Princetown, said John Jones, owed 
Basil a debt which it could never repay. He had elevated 
public taste, and had conferred distinction upon the town- 
ship by his rare literary gifts. Great was their loss at his 
departure, but they had the gratification of believing that 
he would ever look back with affection upon the time he 
had spent in “ our flourishing township.” And they had 
the further gratification of knowing that they had a cham- 
pion in the great world to which he was returning, and 
which he would adorn with his gifts. Before resuming 
his seat it was his proud task to give effect to one of the 
pleasantest incidents in this distinguished gathering. The 
moment it was known that Basil was about to leave them 
a movement was set afoot to present him with some token 
of their regard. In the name of the subscribers, whose 
names were duly set forth in the illuminated scroll which 
accompanied the testimonial, he begged to present to the 
guest of the evening, “a gold keyless lever watch, half- 
quarter repeater, dome half hunting case, three-quarter 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


263 

plate movement, best double roller escapement, compen- 
sated and adjusted, and with all the latest improvements/’ 
John Jones rolled out this elaborate description as though 
each item in it were a delicious morsel which could not 
be dwelt upon too long. Engraved upon the case was a 
record of the presentation, which the orator read amid 
cheers, and attached to the watch was a gold chain, with 
another long description, of which John Jones took care 
not to miss a single word. Then came the peroration, 
in which the chairman excelled himself, its conclusion 
being, “I call upon you now to drink, with three times 
three, health and prosperity to our honored guest, a gentle- 
man, scholar, and good fellow/' He led a hip, hip, hip, 
hurrah — hoorah — hoorah ! And a little one in (the giant 
of the lot), “ Hoo-o-o-o-rah-h-h-h ! " Then they sang 
“For he's a jolly good fellow," in which they were joined 
by all the gold-diggers at the bar and in the High Street 
outside. John Jones sat down beaming, and gazing 
around with broad smiles, wiped his heated forehead, and 
whispered to himself, “Bravo, John Jones ! Let them 
beat that if they can ! " The presentation of the watch 
and chain was a surprise to Basil ; the secret had been 
well kept, and the generous-hearted donors were rewarded 
by the short speech which Basil made in response. It was 
eloquent and full of feeling, and when he had finished the 
cheers were renewed again and again. The watch and 
chain were really a very handsome gift, and before Basil 
put them on they were passed round for general inspec- 
tion. Then a sentimental song was sung, followed bv 
another toast. (The story-teller must not omit to mention 
that the first proposed were loyal toasts, which were 
received with the greatest enthusiasm.) Other toasts and 
other songs followed, the health of everybody who was 
anybody being proposed and drunk with acclaim. One 
of the most effective speeches of the evening was made 
by the editor of the Princetown Argus , in response to the 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


264 

toast of “The Press.” He paid full tribute to Basil, and 
said : “ He is about to leave us, but we shall not lose him 
entirely. I take the greatest pride in announcing that he 
has accepted the post of special European correspondent 
to the Princetown Argus, and we shall look out eagerly 
for the polished periods in which he will describe the 
great events of the old world. We send a herald forth to 
represent us, and the mother country has reason to con- 
gratulate herself that our choice has fallen upon such a 
gentleman as our guest,” etc., etc. It would occupy too 
many pages to give a full report of the proceedings. 
Those who are curious in such matters cannot do better 
than consult the columns of the next morning’s issue of 
the Princetown Argus , in which the speeches were fully 
reported, with a complete list of the names of those pres- 
ent on the notable occasion. The party did not break 
up until the small hours, and it is to be feared that some 
of the jolly fellows, when they sang “ Auld Lang Syne,’’ 
were rather unsteady on their legs. Whether the occasion 
furnished any excuse for this sad lapse the present chron- 
icler will not venture to say. To judge from John Jones, 
who was not the least of the offenders, they were little 
the worse for it, for he was attending to his Only Beehive, 
early the following morning, as fresh as a lark. But then 
John Jones was an exceptional being. 

The hardest parting was with Edith. The child gave 
Basil a bunch of flowers and her favorite doll. To refuse 
the doll would have caused the little maid fresh sorrow, 
so Basil accepted the token of affection, and subsequently, 
before he left Sydney, sent Edith another, with which she 
fell violently in love, and christened it Basil, though it was 
of the female sex. 

“Good-bye, my dear,” said Basil, “and God bless 
you ! ” 

Edith’s voice was choked with tears, and she could 
only gaze mournfully at the friend who had supplied her 
with loving memories. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 265 

“ Speed you well/’ said the editor ; “hope we shall 
meet again.” 

“ Good luck, mate ! ” was the farewell greeting of a 
number of friends ; Basil did not know until now that he 
had so many. He waved his hand to them, and was 
gone. But he had not travelled two miles before he heard 
the sound of a horses hoofs galloping after him. He 
turned and saw Mr. Majoribanks. 

“ It just occurred to me,” said the Goldfields' Warden, 
“that the name of the money-lender I met in Paris, through 
whom I became acquainted with your namesake, might 
be useful.” 

“ It is very thoughtful of you,” said Basil ; “it ought 
to have occurred to me.” 

“ I know no more about him than I have already told 
you,” said Mr. Majoribanks, “and I am not acquainted 
with his address, but I believe he lives in London. His 
name, real or assumed — for some of his fraternity trade 
under false names — is Edward Kettlewell.” 

“ Thank you,” said Basil ; “I shall remember it.” 

Mr. Majoribanks kept with him for another mile, and 
then galloped back to the township. The steamer in 
which Basil took his passage home started punctually to 
the hour, and bore Basil from the land in which he had 
met with so many sweet and bitter experiences ; and on 
the forty-fifth day from that of his departure he set foot 
once more in England. 


266 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

For cogent reasons Basil had travelled home third-class. 
It economized his funds — of which he felt the necessity — 
and it enabled him the better to carry out his wish of not 
making friends on board. The task upon which he was 
engaged rendered it advisable that as little curiosity as 
possible should be aroused respecting himself and his 
personal history. That he should have to work to some 
extent in secresy was not congenial to his nature, but by 
so doing he would have a better chance of success. Un- 
til he came face to face with Newman Chaytor it was as 
well that his operations should be so conducted as not to 
put his treacherous comrade on his guard. 

He had ample time on board ship to review the events 
of the past few years, and although he found himself 
wandering through labyrinths of extreme perplexity as to 
the doings of Newman Chaytor, the conclusion was forced 
upon him that his false friend had practised towards him 
a systematic course of treachery and deceit. He had 
read accounts of men returning home from distant lands 
for the express purpose of personating others to whom 
they bore some close personal resemblance, and one fa- 
mous case presented itself in which such a plot was only 
exposed by the wonderful skill of the agents employed 
to frustrate it. There, as in his own case, a large fortune 
hung upon the issue, but Newman Chaytor had been 
more successful than the impostor who had schemed to 
step into the enjoyment of a great estate. Chaytor had 
obtained possession of the fortune, and was now enjoy- 
ing the fruits of his nefarious plot. But Basil’s informa- 
tion was so imperfect that he was necessarily completely 


BASIL AMD ANNETTE . 


267 

in the dark as to the precise means by which Newman 
Chaytor had brought his scheming to this successful 
stage. He knew nothing whatever of the correspon- 
dence which Chaytor had carried on with his uncle and 
Annette. Determined as he was to spare no efforts to 
unmask the villain, such a knowledge would have spurred 
him on with indignant fierceness. To recover his fortune, 
if it were possible to do so, was the lesser incentive ; far 
more important was it, in his estimation, that Annette 
should be saved from the snare which had been prepared 
for her. 

It was with strange sensations that he walked once 
more through familiar thoroughfares, and noted that 
nothing was changed but himself. Since last he trod 
them he had learned some of life’s saddest lessons ; but 
hope, and faith, and love remained to keep his spirit 
young. It was no light matter that he had been awakened 
from the dull lethargy of life into which he had fallen in 
the earlier days of Princetown ; that his faith in human 
nature had been restored ; that he had won affection and 
esteem from strangers who even now, though the broad 
seas divided them, had none but kindly thoughts for him. 
Foul as was the plot of which he was the victim, he had 
cause to be deeply grateful. 

He took lodgings on the Lambeth side of Westminster 
Bridge, two modest rooms, for which he paid seven shil- 
lings a week ; food would cost him little ; his modest 
resources must be carefully husbanded, and he would 
be contented with the humblest fare. His task might 
take long in the accomplishment, and to find himself 
stranded in the City of Unrest would be fatal. His expe- 
riences had been so far valuable that they assisted him to 
a more comprehensive view of the circumstances of life. 
When he was last in England he had thought little of the 
morrow. Now it had to be reckoned with. 

In considering how he should set about his task, he had 


268 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


decided that it would be advisable to call in professional 
assistance. He had not arrived at this decision without 
long deliberation. He detested the means, but, repugnant 
as the course was to him, he felt that they were justifiable. 
Singularly enough he had, without being aware of it, 
taken lodgings in a house the master of which belonged 
to the class he intended to call to his aid. He arrived at 
this knowledge on the second day of his tenancy. Chil- 
dren always attracted him, and his landlady had four, all 
of them boys, with puffy cheeks and chubby limbs. 
Their ages were three, five, seven and nine, a piece of 
information given to him by their mother as he issued 
from the house on the second morning, and stood by her 
side a moment watching their antics. The word is not 
exactly correct, for their pastime was singularly grave 
and composed. The eldest boy wielded a policeman’s 
truncheon, and his three brothers, standing in a line, 
were obeying the word of command to march a few steps 
this way, a few steps that, to halt, and finally to separate 
and take up position in distant doorways, from which 
they looked severely at the passers-by. 

“Bless their hearts ! ” said the proud mother. “They’re 
playing policemen.” 

“They seem to know all about it,” remarked Basil. 

“They ought to,” responded the mother. “It was 
born in them.” 

“Is your husband a policeman ? ” asked Basil. 

“He was, sir,” replied the mother; “but he has' re- 
tired from the force, and belongs now to a private in- 
quiry.” 

Basil thought of this as he walked away, after patting 
the children on the head, who did not know exactly 
whether to be gratified at the mark of attention, or to 
straightway take the stranger into custody. He had not 
seen his landlord yet, and it had happened, when he 
engaged the rooms from the woman, that, with the usual 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 269 

carelessness of persons in her station in life, she had not 
asked her new lodger's name, being perfectly satisfied of 
his respectability by his paying her a fortnight’s rent in 
advance, and informing her that he would continue to 
do so as long as he remained in the house. Basil was 
afraid, if he went to a regularly established private office, 
that the fees demanded would be higher than his slender 
resources warranted, and bent as he was on economising, 
he saw here a possible opportunity of obtaining the as- 
sistance he needed at a reduced rate. Therefore on the 
evening of this day he tapped at the door of the sitting- 
room, in which his landlord was playing a game of “old 
maid ” with three of his children, and intimated his desire 
for a little chat with the man after the youngsters had 
gone to bed. 

“On business,” said Basil. 

“No time like the present, sir,” said the landlord, who 
saw “ with half an eye,” as he subsequently expressed 
himself, that his tenant was a gentleman ; “ I’ll come up 
to your room at once, unless you prefer to talk here.” 

“ We shall be more private upstairs, ’’ said Basil, and 
upstairs they went to discuss the business. 

As a preliminary the landlord handed Basil a card, with 
“Mr. Philpott,” printed on it, and in a corner, “Private 
Inquiry,’’ to which was added the address of the house in 
which they were sitting. 

“ Do you carry on your business here, then ? ” inquired 
Basil. 

“Partly, sir,” replied Mr. Philpott. “Iam engaged at 
an office in Surrey Street, but it is seldom that my time is 
fully occupied there, and as I am not on full pay I stipu- 
late that I shall be free to undertake any little bit of busi- 
ness that may fall into my hands in a private way.” 

“ That may suit me,” said Basil. “ To be frank with 
you I was looking out for some one who would do what 
I want at a reasonable rate; I am not overburdened with 


2 70 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


funds, but I can afford to pay moderate fees. Will that 
meet your views ? ” 

“Yes, sir. If you will tell me what you want done I 
will let you know about how much it will cost.” 

Basil paused before he commenced ; he was dealing 
with a stranger, and he did not wish to disclose his name. 

“What passes between us is in confidence, Mr. Phil- 
pott?” 

“Altogether in confidence, sir. That is one of the rules 
of our profession. Whether anything comes of it or not, 
I shall say nothing of my client to a third party, unless 
you instruct me otherwise. ” 

“You are sometimes consulted by people who desire 
to conceal their names ? ” 

“Oh, yes, but they are not generally so frank as you 
are. You would rather not tell me your name? ” 

“That is my desire, if it will make no difference.” 

“Not an atom of difference. Say Mr. Smith.” 

“I am obliged to you. I need not, then, disclose my 
own particular interest in the matter ? ” 

“ Not at all, if it will not hamper me.” 

“ I don’t see how it will hamper you in the least. Shall 
I pay you a modest retainer? Will a guinea do?” 

“A guinea will do, sir. Thank you.” 

“You had better take notes of what Isay, Mr. Philpott.” 
The private inquiry agent produced his pocketbook. 
“Write down first the names I give you.” 

Mr. Philpott took down the names and addresses of 
Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham and of the lawyers in 
London who transacted that gentleman’s affairs when 
Basil was last in England; also the name of Mr. Basil 
Whittingham. 

“Any address to this name, sir? asked Mr. Philpott. 

“None. Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham is, or was — 
for I understand he is dead — a gentleman of considerable 
fortune ; Mr. Basil Whittingham is his nephew ; the law- 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


271 t 

vers whose names I have given you transacted the old 
gentleman’s business for many years, but I am not aware 
whether they have continued to do so.” 

“That is easily ascertained.” 

“Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham had neither wife nor 
children, and some years since it was his intention to 
leave all his property to his nephew'. The young man, 
however, offended his uncle and the old gentleman there- 
upon informed his nephew 7 that he had destroyed the will 
he had made in his favor, and that Mr. Basil Whittingham 
might consider himself disinherited. Do you understand 
it thus far? ” 

“It is perfectly clear, sir. ” 

“The relations between the uncle and his nephew were 
completely broken off. Mr. Basil Whittingham — w r ho had 
some private fortune of his own, but had got rid of it — 
being disappointed in his expectations, left England for 
Australia, where he resided for a considerable time. ” 

“ For how many years shall we say, sir? ” 

“ Five or six. When he was near his end the uncle 
repented of his decision, and made another will — I am 
supposing that he really destroyed the first, which may 
or may not have been the case — by w'hich his original 
intention w^as carried out, and his nephew was constituted 
sole heir to the property. ” 

“Good.” 

“ This property, I believe, w r as not in real estate, but 
in cash and securities w'hich were easily convertible. 
The knowledge of his kindness reached the nephew’s 
ears in Australia, and he returned home and took pos- 
session of the fortune. ” 

“Very natural.” 

‘ ‘ I w'ish these details to be verified, or otherwise, Mr. 
Philpott. ” 

“I undertake to do so, sir.” 

“ I wish also to ascertain where Mr. Basil Whittingham 
is now residing.” 


272 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


‘ ‘ Can you give a clue, sir ? ” 

“A very slight one, I am afraid. The last I heard of 
the nephew was that about eighteen months ago he was 
in Paris, in the company of a Mr. Edward Kettlewell, a 
money-lender, whose offices are, or were, in London. I 
am under the impression that Mr. Basil Whittingham and 
Mr. Kettlewell may have had some business transactions 
with each other. If so, it should not be difficult to trace 
Mr. Basil Whittingham through Mr. Kettlewell. ” 

“It may be more difficult than you imagine,” said Mr. 
Philpott. “These money-lenders are difficult persons to 
deal with. They are as jealous of their clients as a cat 
of her kittens. ‘ Hands off,’ they cry ; ‘ this is my bird.’ 
Hold hard a minute, sir. I have this year’s ‘ London 
Directory ’ downstairs. ” 

He left the'room, and returned bearing the bulky vol- 
ume, which he proceeded to consult. No Mr. Edward 
Kettlewell, money-lender or financial agent, was to be 
found in its pages. There were plenty of Kettle wells, 
and a few Edwards among them, but not one who dealt 
in money. 

“Still,” said Mr. Philpott, “it may be one of these. 
He may have retired, he may have left the country, he 
may be dead. I will look through the directories for a 
few years past, and we will see if we can find him.” 

“ My information concerning him,” said Basil, “is not 
very exact, and may after all be incorrect; but with or 
without his assistance it is most important that the address 
of Mr. Basil Whittingham should be ascertained. ” 

“ I will do my best, sir ; no man can do more. ” 

“There is another matter, of which I must beg you 
not to lose sight. Shortly after Mr. Basil Whittingham 
arrived in Australia he came in contact with a gentleman, 
M. Anthony Bidaud, who owned a plantation in Queens- 
land. This gentleman had a daughter, quite a child then, 
whose name is Annette. M. Anthony Bidaud died 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


2 73 

suddenly, and left no will. On the morning of his death 
a brother and sister — the brothers name, Gilbert — pre- 
sented themselves at the plantation, and the brother 
administered the estate, and assumed the guardianship 
of his niece. The plantation was sold, and the little girl, 
with her uncle and aunt, came to Europe. Between the 
child and Mr Basil Whittingham there existed a bond of 
affection, and since his return to England he has suc- 
ceeded — so my information goes — in establishing friendly 
relations with M. Gilbert Bidaud. If you are fortunate 
enough to trace Mr. Basil Whittingham, my impression 
is that the knowledge will lead you straight to M. Gilbert 
Bidaud and his sister and niece, to discover whom I con- 
sider of far greater importance than the discovery of the 
young man. Now, Mr. Philpott, if you have grasped 
the situation, are you prepared to set to work ?'* 

“ I will not lose a day, sir ; I commence my inquiries 
to-morrow ; and as you inform me that you are not 
exactly rich it may be convenient if I present a weekly 
account, including all charges to date, so that you may 
know how you stand as to expenses. Then you can go 
on or stop at your pleasure.” 

“It will be the best plan,” said Basil. 

Mr. Philpott was very much puzzled that night when 
he thought over the commission entrusted to him. “ He 
says nothing of himself,” thought the private inquiry 
agent, “nor of the particular interest he has in the 
matter. He must have a particular interest — a very par- 
ticular interest, for I never saw any one more in earnest 
than he is. His voice absolutely trembled when he spoke 
of the uncle and Mdlle. Annette. Now that would not 
happen if he were acting as an agent for another person. 
What is the conclusion, then? That he is acting for him- 
self. Does this Mr. Basil Whittingham owe him money? 
Perhaps. And yet it does not strike me as an affair of 
that kind. Well, at all events he has acted openly and 

18 


274 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


straightforwardly with me, so far as he and I are con- 
cerned. It is not often a client tells you that he is living 
under an assumed name. I must ask the wife if his 
shirts and handkerchiefs are marked.” 

His curiosity, however, was destined not to be 
appeased ; his wife told him that Basil’s clothing bore no 
initials — which, according to Mr. Philpott’s way of think- 
ing, betokened extreme caution, and whetted his curiosity. 
He did not, however, allow this to interfere with the 
zealous exercise of his duties. Proceeding step by step 
he presented his weekly reports to Basil. In the course 
of a short time Basil’s worst suspicions were confirmed. 
Newman Chaytor had come home, and representing him- 
self to be Basil Whittingham, had experienced no difficulty 
in establishing his position and administering his uncle’s 
estate. This done, he had disappeared, and Mr. Philpott 
was unsuccessful in tracing him. 

“But,” said Basil, “would not a man, arriving from 
a country so distant as Australia, in such circumstances 
have to prove his identity ? ” 

Mr. Philpott opened his eyes at this question ; to use 
his own term, he “smelt a rat.” 

“Certainly he would,” replied Mr. Philpott, “ but that 
was simple enough in Mr. Basil Whittingham’s case. He 
had been in correspondence with his uncle for some time 
previous to his departure from Australia.” 

“What do you tell me?” cried Basil. 

“It is an established fact,” said Mr. Philpott, express- 
ing no surprise ; but Basil’s tone, no less than his words, 
opened his eyes still further. “A few days before Mr. 
Bartholomew Whittingham’s death, he wrote to his 
nephew in Australia, announcing his change of intention. 
This letter was forwarded to Mr. Basil by his uncle’s 
lawyers, who, as you now know, are not the same he 
employed in former years.” 

“Basil Whittingham,” said Basil, unable to repress 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


2 75 

his excitement, “received these letters in Australia?” 

“Undoubtedly. He brought them home with him, 
and others also which he had previously received from 
his uncle’s lawyers/' 

“There was a regular correspondence with them, 
then?” 

“Yes, extending over a considerable time.” 

This was a fresh and startling revelation to Basil. New- 
man Chaytor had not only personated him in England, 
but had personated him at a distance, receiving letters 
intended for him and forging letters in reply. 

“He robbed me of my papers,” groaned Basil inly, 
“and obtained possession of the means to prove him the 
man he represented himself to be. The base, unutterable 
villain ! He smiled in my face, a living lie ! And I 
trusted in him, believed in him, laid my heart bare to 
him, and all the time he was planning my destruction. 
Just Heaven ! Give me the power to bring him to the 
punishment he deserves ! ” 

But did the foul plot go farther than this ? Every time 
Chaytor returned from the colonial post-office it was with 
the same answer — there were no letters for Basil Whitting- 
ham. And he had received and answered them ; they 
were on his person while he was uttering the infamous 
falsehood, smiling in Basil’s face the while. To what 
depths would human cunning and duplicity go? The 
tale, related to Basil by one who had been wronged, 
would have sounded incredible. He would have asked, 
“Is not this man laboring under some monstrous delu- 
sion ? ” But the bitter experience was his, and no tale 
would now be too wild for disbelief. Again he asked 
himself, did the plot go farther than what had already 
come to his knowledge? Newman Chaytor, going to the 
post-office for letters for him, would receive all addressed 
to his name. What if Annette had written ? What if be- 
tween her and Chaytor a regular correspondence had en- 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


27$ 

sued ? It was more than possible, it was probable ; it 
was more than probable, it was true. At this conclusion 
he quickly arrived. Annette had redeemed her promise ; 
she had written to him as she said she would, and had 
received Chay tor’s letters in reply. This explained how 
it was that Chaytor had been able to find Annette and her 
uncle. Did Gilbert Bidaud suspect, and was he trading 
upon the suspicion ; and were the two villains conspiring 
for the destruction of the poor girl’s happiness ? Basil 
looked around pitifully, despairingly, as though invoking 
the assistance of an unknown power. 

“You seem disturbed,” said Mr. Philpott, who had 
been attentively observing him. 

“The news you have imparted , ” said Basil, “is ter- 
rible. Is there no way of discovering this Basil Whitting- 
ham ? ” 

“We might advertise for him,” suggested Mr. Philpott. 

Basil shook his head. “If he saw the advertisement 
he would not answer it.” 

“Hallo,” thought Mr. Philpott, “our absent friend has 
done something that would place him in the criminal 
dock.” Professionally he was in the habit of hiding his 
hand, so far as the expression of original thought went. 
“But some one who knows him,” he said, “might see 
the advertisement and answer for him.” 

Basil caught at the suggestion. “Advertise, then, and 
in such a manner as not to alarm him.” 

“Trust me for that,” said Mr. Philpott, with great con- 
fidence. “ I know how to bait my line.” 

But the advertisements met with no response. Worked 
up to fever heat, Basil instructed Mr. Philpott to spare no 
expense, and the inquiry was prosecuted with wasted 
vigor, for at the end of two months they had not ad- 
vanced a step. Basil was in agony; he grew morbid, 
and raised up accusing voices against himself. The re- 
flection that Annette, the sweet and innocent child who 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


277 


had given him her heart, should be in the power of two 
such villains as Gilbert Bidaud and Newman Chaytor was 
an inexpressible torture to him. He had accepted from 
her father a sacred trust — how had he fulfilled it ? He 
inflicted exquisite suffering upon himself by arguing that 
it was he who had betrayed her, that it was through him 
she had been brought to this pass. Had she not known 
him she would never have known Newman Chaytor ; had 
he not worked upon her young affections and extracted 
her promise to write to him, it would have been impos- 
sible that Chaytor should ever have crossed her path. He 
pressed into this self-condemnation all the cruel logic his 
mind could devise. As he walked the streets at night 
Annette’s image rose before him and gazed upon him re- 
proachfully. “ You have compassed my ruin,” it seemed 
to say, “you are the cause of my corruption, of my dis- 
honor.” He accepted the accusation and groaned, “ It is 
I, it is I, who have made your life a waste.” Of all the 
dolorous phases through which he had passed, this per- 
haps was the worst. But he had yet other bitter experi- 
ences to encounter. On a Saturday evening Mr. Philpott 
said : 

“ I must speak honestly. I have done all I could, and 
nothing has come of it. I might continue as long as you 
continued to engage my services, but it would be only 
throwing your money away.” 

It was an unusual confession for a man in his line to 
make. Private inquiry agents have generally the quality 
of the leech, and will suck the last drop of blood out of a 
client, but Basil had won the commiseration of his land- 
lord. 

“I must take the case into my own hands,” said Basil, 
gloomily. “I intended, indeed, to tell you as much my- 
self— for pressing reasons. I thank you for all you have 
done for me.” 

“Little enough,” said Mr. Philpott. “ I wish you bet- 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


278 

ter luck than I have had. Mind you, I don’t give it up 
entirely, but if I do anything more it will not be for 

pay.” 

“ You are, and have been, very kind. Have you made 
out your account ? ” 

Mr. Philpott presented it, and Basil settled it. Then he 
said, 

“ Will you ask your wife to step up and see me ? ” 

‘‘Yes, sir. Now, don’t you be cast down, sir; it is a 
long lane that has no turning, and there’s no telling at 
any moment what may turn up. I should like to take 
the liberty of asking one question.” 

“Ask it.” 

“If, after all, the search should be successful, is it 
likely you would be in a better position than you are 
now ? I am taking a liberty, I know, but I don’t mean 
it as such. You told me at first you were not over- 
burdened with funds ; if it has been all going out and 
none coming in, you must be worse off now.” 

“ I am very much worse off, Mr. Philpott.” I will an- 
swer your question. Should I succeed in finding the 
man I am hunting — a poor hunt it has proved to be with 
no quarry in view — I have reason to believe that I should 
obtain funds which would enable me to discharge any 
liabilities I may incur.” 

“Thank you, sir,” said Mr. Philpott, pushing across 
the table the money which Basil had paid him ; “then 
suppose I wait.” 

“No,” said Basil gently, “take it while you are sure of 
it, Mr. Philpott. You have worked honestly for it, and 
you have a family.” 

“But I can afford to wait, sir. If I lost ten times as 
much it would not break me.” 

“ I must insist upon your taking it, Mr. Philpott.” 

It was the pride of the poor gentleman, who would 
leave himself penniless rather than leave an obligation 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


279 

unsettled. Mr. Philpott recognized it as such, and recog- 
nized also that it marked the difference between them — 
which increased the respect he felt for Basil. He pocketed 
the money reluctantly. 

‘‘Send your wife up to me, Mr. Philpott.” 

“I will, sir.” 

Basil had indeed pressing reasons for dispensing with 
Mr. Philpott's further services. The larger expenses of the 
last few weeks had brought his funds to a very low ebb. 
He took out his purse and counted his worldly wealth ; it 
amounted to less than two pounds. He was standing at 
poverty's door. In Australia, on the goldfields, it would 
not have mattered so much. Earnest labor there can 
always ensure at least food for the passing day ; it is only 
the idle and dissolute men without a backbone who have 
to endure hunger ; but here in this overcrowded city hun- 
ger is no rare experience to those who are willing to toil. 
Needless to say that the watch and chain which had been 
presented to Basil in Princetown was no longer in Basil's 
possession. The prospect before him, physically and 
morally, was appalling. 

There was a gentle knock at the door. “Come in,” 
said Basil, and Mrs. Philpott entered the room. 

“ My husband tells me you wish to see me, sir,” said 
the landlady. 

“Take a seat, Mrs. Philpott,” said Basil. “ I hope you 
have brought your weekly account ; you should have 
given it to me yesterday . v 

“Friday's an unlucky day, sir,” said Mrs. Philpott, 
fencing. 

“ But to-day is Saturday,” said Basil with a sad smile. 

“There’s no hurry, sir, I assure you.” 

Basil looked at her and shook his head. His look, and 
the weary, mournful expression on his face, brought tears 
to the good creature's eyes. 

“I must insist on having the account, Mrs. Philpott.” 


28 o 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“Well, sir, if you insist,” said Mrs. Philpott, reduced to 
helplessness; “it is only the rent, seven shillings. 

“There are my breakfasts,” said Basil, “With which 
you have been good enough to supply me. I have not 
kept faith with you. When I took these rooms I promised 
to pay always a fortnight’s rent in advance ; lately I have 
not done so.” 

“How could you pay, sir, when you didn’t know what 
the breakfasts came to ? ” 

“That does not excuse me. Oblige me by telling me 
how much I owe you.” 

“If you won’t be denied, sir, it’s twelve and tenpence. ” 

“ There it is and I’m infinitely obliged to you. Mrs. 
Philpott, I am sorry to say I must give you a week’s no- 
tice. ” 

“You’re never going to leave us, sir! Is there any- 
thing wrong with the rooms. ” We’ll have it put right 
in a twinkling.” 

“The rooms are very comfortable, and I wish I could 
remain in them ; but it cannot be.” 

“You must remain, sir, really you must. I won’t take 
your notice. You must sleep somewhere! Philpott will 
never forgive me if I let you go.” 

Her consciousness of the strait he was in, and her pity 
for it, were so unmistakable — her desire to befriend him 
and her sympathy were so clearly expressed — that Basil 
covered his eyes with his hand, and remained silent 
awhile. When he removed his hand he said — 

“I am truly sensible of your goodness, Mrs. Philpott, 
but it must be as I say.” 

“ Think better of it, sir,” urged Mrs. Philpott. “ You 
are a gentleman and I am only a common woman, but I 
am old enough to be your mother, and I don’t think you 
ought to treat me so — so ” — exactly the right word did not 
occur to her, so she added — “ suddenly. Here you are, 
sir, all alone, if you’ll excuse me for saying so, and here 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


281 

we are with more rooms in the house than we know what 
to do with. Why, sir, if you’ll stay it will be obliging 
us.” 

All her kindly efforts were unavailing. She asked him 
to make the notice a month instead of a week, and then 
she came down to a fortnight, and made some vague 
reference to clouds with silver linings ; but Basil was not 
to be prevailed upon, and she left the room in a despond- 
ent state. 

“We’ll keep an eye on him if we can,” her husband 
said to her when she gave him an account of the inter- 
view. “ I may find out something yet that will be of 
use to him. It is a strange case, old woman, and I don’t 
mind confessing that I can’t see the bottom of it.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Sternly resolved to carry out his determination not to 
occupy rooms for which he could not pay, Basil left Mrs. 
Philpott’s house on the appointed day. It was his wish 
to quit without being observed, but Mrs. Philpott was on 
the look-out and lay in wait for him. Before he reached 
the street door she barred his way in the landing. 

“You’re not going away, sir,” she said reproachfully, 
“without wishing the children good-bye.” 

In honest and affectionate friendship there is sometimes 
displayed a pleasant quality of cunning which it does one 
no harm to meet with, and in her exercise of it Mrs. Phil- 
pott pressed her children into the service. Basil had no 
alternative but to accompany her into the parlor, where 
the four little fellows were sitting at the table waiting for 
dinner. 

“You’ll excuse me a minute, sir,” said the good 
woman ; “if I don’t fill their plates before they’re five 
minutes older they’ll set up a howl.” 


282 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


Out she bustled, and quickly returned with a mighty 
dish of Irish stew. 

“Philpott says/’ said Mrs. Philpott as she placed the 
steaming dish on the table, “ that no one in the world 
can make an Irish stew like mine ; and what father says 
is law, isn’t it, children ? I always have dinner with 
them, sir ; perhaps you’ll join us. I really should like to 
know if you’re of my husband’s opinion. Now this looks 
home-like ” — as Basil, who had independence of spirit, 
but no false pride, took his seat at the table where a chair 
and a plate had already been set for him — “almost as if 
father was with us, or as if the children had a great big 
brother who had been abroad ever so many years, and 
had popped in quite sudden to surprise us.” 

All the time she was talking she was filling up the 
plates, and the little party fell-to with a will, Basil eating 
as heartily as the rest. Mrs. Philpott was delighted at 
the success of her ruse, but she was careful not to show 
her pleasure, and when Basil said, in answer to her 
inquiry, that he had had enough, she did not press him 
to take more. When dinner was over the children had to 
be taken out of the room to have their faces washed ; 
they were brought back for Basil to kiss, and then were 
sent into the street to play policeman. 

“You’ll let us hear of you from time to time, sir,” said 
Mrs. Philpott, as she and Basil stood at the street door. 
“Philpott is regular down-hearted because of your going. 
I’m not to let your rooms again, he says, so there they 
are, sir, ready for you whenever you do us the pleasure 
to come. We’re getting along in the world, sir, and the 
few shillings a- week don’t matter to us now.” 

“Iam truly glad to hear it, Mrs. Philpott,” said Basil. 

“There was a time,” continued Mrs. Philpott, “when 
it did matter, and when every shilling was worth its 
weight in gold in a manner of speaking. We’ve had our 
ups and downs, sir, as most people have, and if it hadn’t 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


283 


been for a friendly hand heaven only knows where we 
should be at this present minute. We were in such low 
water, sir, we didn’t know which way to turn. Philpott 
says to me, ‘ Mother,’ he says 1 hope I’m not weary- 

ing you, sir,” said Mrs. Philpott, breaking off in the mid- 
dle of her sentence. 

“Pray go on,” said Basil, feeling that it would be churl- 
ish to check her. 

“It’s a comfort, sir,” continued Mrs. Philpott, “to open 
one’s heart. It doesn’t make me melancholy to look 
back to those days, though my spirit was almost broke 
at the time ; I’m proud and grateful that we’ve tided them 
over, with the help of God and the good friend He sent 
us. ‘Mother,’ says Philpott to me, ‘I’m on my beam 
ends. We’re in a wood, and there’s no way out of it.’ 
‘ Don’t you go on like that, father,’ I says ; ‘ you keep on 
trying, and you’ll see a way out presently.’ For I’m one 
of that sort of women, sir, if you won’t mind my saying 
as much, who never give in, and don’t know when they’re 
beat. I don’t mean to say I don’t suffer ; I do, but I put 
a brave face on it and never say die. ‘You keep on try- 
ing father,’ I says. ‘ Now haven’t I kept on trying?’ says 
he. ‘ For eight weeks I’ve answered every advertisement 
in the paper, and applied for a job in hundreds and hun- 
dreds of places without getting the smell of one. I’m 
ashamed to look you in the face, mother, for if it wasn’t 
for you our boy would starve.’ We only had one then, 
sir, and as for being ashamed to look mein the face Phil- 
pott ought to have been ashamed to say as much. All 
that I did was to get a day’s charing wherever I could, 
and a bit of washing when I heard there was a chance of 
it, and that 'was how we kept the wolf from the door, 
but I fell ill, sir, and couldn’t stir out of doors, and was 
so weak that I couldn’t stand at the wash-tub without 
fainting away. Things were bad indeed then, and Phil- 
pott took Qn so that I did lose heart a bit. Well, sir, when 


284 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


we’d parted with everything- we could raise a penny upon, 
when we didn't know where we should get our next meal 
from, though it was only dry bread, heaven sent us a 
friend. An old friend of Philpott’s, sir, that he hadn’t seen 
for years, and that he’d been fond of and kind to when 
he was a young man, before he kept company with me. 
Philpott had lent him a couple of pound, and he’d gone 
off to America, and now, sir, now, in the very nick of 
time, he came home to pay it back. Did you ever see 
the sun shine as bright as bright can be in a dark room at 
ten o’clock at night — for that was the time when Philpott’s 
friend opened the door, and cried, * Does Mr. Philpott 
live here ? ’ It shone into our room, sir, though there was 
never a candle to light it up, and Philpott was sitting by 
me with his head in his hands. Philpott starts up in a 
fright — when people are in the state we were brought to 
the least unexpected thing makes their hearts beat with 
fear — he starts up and says, ‘ Who are you ? ’ ‘ That’s 

Philpott’s voice,’ says our friend. ‘I’d know it among a 
thousand ; but don’t you know mine, old fellow ? And 
what are you sitting in the dark for ? ” Then he tells us 
who he is, and Philpott takes hold of his hand and says 
he’s glad to see his old friend — which he couldn’t, sir— 
and, ashamed of his poverty, pulls him out of the room. 
He comes back almost directly, and stoops over me and 
kisses me, and whispers that heaven has sent us a friend 
when most we needed one, and I feel my dear man’s 
tears on my face. Then, sir, if you’ll believe me, it seemed 
to me as if the sun was shining in our dark room, and 
all the trouble in my mind flew straight away. From 
that time all went well with 11s ; it was right about face 
in real earnest. Philpott’s friend had another friend who 
got my husband in the force, and now we’ve got a bit of 
money put by for a rainy day, and don’t need the rent 
for a couple of empty rooms.” 

Mrs. Philpott’s account of her troubles was much longer 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


285 

than she intended to make it, and her concluding words 
were spoken wistfully and appealingly. They were not 
lost upon Basil, but they did not turn him from his pur- 
pose. With a kindly pressure of her hand, and promising 
to call and see her unless circumstances prevented — which 
meant unless his fortunes remained in their present des- 
perate condition — he took his leave of her and passed out 
of her sight. 

“ Poor young gentleman,” sighed the good woman. 
“ I would have given the world if he’d have stopped with 
us. What on earth will become of him ? IPs hard to 
come down like that. Better to be born poor and remain 
so, than to be born rich and lose everything. His face 
was the image of despair, though he was politeness itself 
all the time I was talking. I .shan’t be able to get him 
out of my head.” 

She and her husband talked of him that night, and if 
kind wishes and sympathizing words were of practical 
value, Basil would haye been comforted and strength- 
ened. 

Strengthened in some poor way he was. It had been 
his hard fate to be made the victim of as black treachery 
as one man ever practised towards another ; but he had 
met with kindness also at the hands of strangers. He 
strove to extract consolation from that reflection. Heaven 
knows he needed it, for he -was now to make acquaint- 
ance with poverty in its grimmest aspect. He was ab- 
solutely powerless. He had debated with himself various 
courses which might be said to be open to a man in his 
extremity, but he saw no possible road to success in any 
one of them. The most feasible was that he should go 
to a capable lawyer and endeavor to enlist his skill on his 
behalf. But what lawyer would listen to a man who 
presented himself with a tale so strange and without the 
smallest means to pay for services rendered? It would 
be a natural conclusion that he was mad, or that he, be- 


286 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


ing Newton Chaytor, was adopting this desperate expedi- 
ent to prove himself to be Basil Whittingham. That he 
was a gentleman was true : he had the manners of one, 
but so had many who were not gentlemen. Then his 
appearance was against him ; he had no other clothes 
than those he stood upright in, and these were shabby 
and in bad repair. Even if he had possessed assurance, 
it would not have served him — nay, it would have told 
against him, as proclaiming, “ Here is a plausible scoun- 
drel, who seeks to deceive us by swagger.” He was 
truly in a helpless plight. 

The necessity of living was forced upon him, and to 
live a man must have money to purchase food. Recall- 
ing the efforts made by Mr. Philpott in his days of distress, 
as described by that man's good wife, he applied for situa- 
tions he saw advertised, but there were a hundred appli- 
cants for every office, and he ever arrived too late, or was 
pushed aside, or was considered unsuitable. In one of 
his applications he was very nearly successful, but it 
came to a question of character, and he had no reference 
except the editor of the Princetown Argus , who was four- 
teen thousand miles away. What wonder that he was 
laughed at and dismissed? Then he thought that his ex- 
periences on the goldfields and his training as a journalist 
might help him, and he wrote some sketches and articles 
and sent them to magazines and newspapers. He heard 
nothing of them after they were dropped into the editorial 
boxes. The fault may have been his own, for he had no 
heart to throw spirit into his effusions, but his state was 
no less pitiable because of that. He felt as if indeed he 
had forever lost his place in the world. By day he walked 
the streets, and at night occupied abed in the commonest 
of London lodging-houses. At first he paid fourpence for 
his bed, but latterly he could afford no more than twopence, 
and presently he would not be able to afford even that. 
It was a stipulation of his nightly accommodation that he 


BASIL AMD ANNETTE. 287 

should turn out early in the morning, and this he was 
willing enough to do, for he had but little sleep, and the 
beings he was compelled to herd with filled him with dis- 
may. It was not their poverty that shocked him ; it was 
their language, their sentiments, their expressions of pleas- 
ure in all that was depraved. He had had no idea of the 
existence of such classes, and now that he came face to 
face with them he shrank from them in horror. Had they 
been merely thieves it is possible that he might have tol- 
erated them, and even entertained pity for them, arguing 
that they were born to theft, that their parents had been 
thieves before them and had taught them no better ; or 
that they had been driven into the ranks by sheer neces- 
sity ; but it was the corruption of their souls that terrified 
him ; it was the consciousness that with vice and virtue 
placed for them to choose, with means for each, they 
would have chosen vice and revelled in it. Amid all this 
corruption and degradation he maintained a pitiable self- 
respect and kept his soul pure. Often did he go without 
a meal, but he would listen to no temptations, electing, by 
instinct, rather to suffer physically than to lower his moral 
nature to the level of those by whom he was surrounded. 
When he walked the streets by day he did not walk aim- 
lessly and without purpose. It was probable enough that 
Newman Chaytor was in London, and, if so, the fortune 
of which he had obtained fraudulent possession would 
enable him to live in the best and most fashionable quarters 
of the city. Basil haunted those better localities, and 
watched for the villain who had betrayed him, in the vicin- 
ity of the grand hotels, the clubs, and the resorts of fash- 
ion in the parks. Sometimes at night he lingered about 
the high-class theatres to see the audience come out. In 
the event of his meeting his enemy he had no settled plan 
except that he would endeavor to find out where he lived, 
and through that knowledge to obtain access to Annette. 

One night he met with a strange adventure. He had 


288 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


come from Covent Garden, where mingling in the crowd, 
he had watched the audience issue from the Opera House, 
in which a famous songstress had been singing. It was 
an animated, bustling scene, but it was impossible for a 
man in such sore distress to take pleasure in it ; neither 
did he draw bitterness from the gayety ; he merely looked 
on with a pathos in his eyes which was now their usual 
expression. Frequently, in his days of prosperity, had 
he attended the opera, as one of the fashion, and heard 
this same songstress, whose praise was on every man’s 
lips ; now he was an outcast, hungry, almost in rags, 
without even a name which the world would accept as 
his by right of birth and inheritance. It was a cold night, 
but dry — that was a comfort to a poorly-clad man. In- 
deed, there is in all conditions of life something to be 
grateful for, if we would only seek for it. 

A curious fancy entered Basil’s mind. He heard the 
carriages called out — “Lady This’s carriage,” “Lord 
That’s carriage,” “the Honorable T’other’s carriage.” 
How if “Mr. Basil Whittingham’s carriage” was called 
out? So completely was he for the moment lost to the 
sad realities of his position, so thoroughly did the fancy 
take possession of him, that he actually listened for the 
announcement, and had it been made it is probable that 
he would have pushed his way through the crowd with the 
intention of entering the carriage. But nothing of the 
kind occurred. Gradually the theatre was emptied, and 
the audience wended homeward, riding or a-foot, north, 
south, east, and west, till only the fringe was left — night- 
birds who filtered slowly to their several haunts, not all of 
which could boast of roof and bed. A nightbird himself, 
Basil walked slowly on towards Westminster. He had 
fivepence in his pocket, and no prospect of adding any- 
thing to it to-morrow, and he was considering whether 
he should spend twopence for a bed, or pass the night on 
a bench on the Embankment. It was a weighty matter 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


289 

to decide, as important to him as the debate which was 
proceeding in the house, upon which a nation’s destiny 
hung. In Parliament Street a young couple brushed past 
him ; they had been supping after the theatre, and Basil 
heard the man address the woman as “ Little Wifey,” and 
saw her nestle closer to her husbands arm as he uttered 
this term of endearment. For a moment Basil forgot his 
own misery, and a bright smile came to his lips ; but it 
faded instantly, and he trudged wearily on, discussing the 
momentous question of bed or bench. Undecided, he 
found himself on Westminster Bridge, where he stood gaz- 
ing upon the long panorama of lights from lamps and 
stars. Were this wonderful and suggestive picture situated 
in a foreign country, English people would include it in 
their touring jaunts and come home and rave about it, but 
as it is situated in London its beauties are unheeded. 

Basil leaning over the stone rampart, looking down into 
the river, was presently conscious that some person was 
standing by his side. He turned his head and saw a 
woman, who gazed with singular intentness upon him. 
She was neither young nor fair, but she had traces of 
beauty in her face which betokened that in her spring- 
time she could not have been without admirers. Her age 
was about thirty, and she was well dressed. So much 
Basil took in at a glance, and then he averted his eyes 
and resumed his walk across the bridge. The woman 
followed him closely, and whe/v he paused and gently 
waved her off, she said, 

“Why do you avoid me? I want nothing of you.” 

“Good-night, then,” said Basil in a kind voice, and 
would have proceeded on his way if the woman had not 
prevented him. 

“No, not good-night, yet,” she said. “Did you not 
understand me when I said. I want nothing of you ? It is 
true ; but happening to catch sight of your face as I was 
crossing the bridge I could not pass without speaking to 

l 9 


2$0 


BASIL A JIB ANNETTE. 


you. It would have brought a punishment upon me — > 
knowing what I know.” 

Being compelled by her persistence to a closer obser- 
vance of her, Basil was moved to a certain pity for her. 
There were tears in her eyes and a pathos in her voice 
which touched him. Desolate outcast as he was, whom 
the world, if he proclaimed himself, would declare to be 
an impostor, what kind of manhood was that which would 
refuse a word of compassion to a woman who appeared 
to be in affliction ? His pitying glance strangely affected 
her ; she clung to the stone wall and burst into a passion 
of tears. 

“I am sorry for your trouble,” said Basil, waiting till 
she had recovered herself. “Can I do anything to help 
you ? ” 

“Nothing,” she replied. “No one can help me. I 
have lost all I loved in the world. This is a strange meet- 
ing ; I have been thinking of you to-day, but never dreamt 
I should see you to-night. To-night of all nights ! ” 

“Thinking of me ! ” exclaimed Basil in amazement. 

“You will not consider it strange,” said the woman, 
“ when you know all. I could not stop at home ; I have 
been sitting by her side since three o’clock, and then a 
voice whispered to me, ‘ Go out for an hour, look up to 
heaven where the Supreme Guide is, and pray for a mir- 
acle.’ So I came out, and have been praying to Him to 
give her back to me.” 

“Poor woman!” murmured Basil, for now he knew 
from her words that she had lost one who was dear to her. 
“ I pity you from my heart.” 

“You are changed,” said the woman ; “not in face, 
for I should have known you anywhere, but in your voice 
and manner. It is gentler, kinder than it used to be.” 

Basil did not answ’er her ; he thought that grief had 
affected her mind, and that her words bore no direct rela- 
tion to himself. He had no suspicion of the truth which 
was subsequently to be revealed to him. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


291 

“It is many years since we met,” she said. “Have 
you been long in England ? ” 

“A few months,” said Basil. 

“ Yourhave not made your fortune?” 

“No, indeed.” 

“You look poor enough. Have you no money?” 

“ None,” said Basil ; and added hastily, “or very 
little.” 

“ You have been unfortunate since your return home?” 

“Very unfortunate.” 

She opened her purse, and took out a sovereign and 
held it out to him. 

“ Thank you, no,” said Basil, his wonder growing. 

“You are changed indeed,” said the woman, “to refuse 
money. It is honestly come by. Two years ago I was 
married, and my husband, who died a year afterwards, 
left me a small income. It was more than I deserved, 
for I deceived him by telling him I was a widow. It 
made no difference, but still it was a deceit. Will you 
not take it ? ” 

“No.” 

“And yet you need it? ” 

“ Do not urge me further. Good-night.” 

“Wait one moment. I was going to tell you to-night ; 
but you had best see for yourself. It is your right. Here 
is my address ; my mother and sister live with me. Come 
and see me to-morrow morning at ten o’clock. Promise 

yy 

me. 

“No, I cannot promise,” said Basil, moving away. 

“You must promise,” said the woman, moving after 
him. “I will not leave you till you do. I tell you it is 
your right — -it is more than your right, it is your duty.” 

Seeing that there was no other way to release himself 
from her, Basil said, “I promise.” 

“ On your sacred word of honor,” said the woman, 

“ On my sacred word of honor,” 


292 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“ I will trust you ; there was a time when I would not. 
Good-night. To-morrow, ten.” 

She glided away, and Basil was once more alone. The 
misery of his own circumstances was no encouragement 
to him to dwell upon the adventure, and he dismissed it 
from his mind, accounting for the woman’s strange utter- 
ances by the supposition that she was of weak intellect. 
He passed the night in the open air, and in the morning 
bought one pennyworth of bread — it was cheaper than 
buying a penny roll — for his breakfast. This and water 
from a drinking-fountain satisfied hunger and thirst. 

“A man can live upon very little,” he said to himself, 
“but how is it going to end?” 

It was a pertinent question, and answered itself. The 
end seemed near and certain. 

It was a bright morning, and he walked in the sun. 
He did not forget the promise he had made to the woman ; 
it was a promise to which he had pledged himself, and 
even if mischief resulted it must be fulfilled. The name 
on the card was Mrs. Addison, the address, Queen-street, 
Long Acre. Thither he went, and paused before a mil- 
liner’s shop, the windows of which were partially masked 
by shutters. Over the shop front was the name Addison, 
and the goods displayed bore evidence of a certain pros- 
perity ; they were not of the poorest kind. An elderly 
gray-haired woman came forward as he entered. Her 
face was sad and severe, and there was no civility in her 
voice as she informed him in answer to his question, that 
he had come to the right address. 

“Go through that door,” she said with a frown, “up- 
stairs to the first landing. My daughter expects you. I 
must ask you to make your visit short.” 

It was not only that her voice was cold, it expressed 
repugnance, and without requesting an explanation Basil 
followed her and mounted the stairs. The sound of his 
footsteps brought the woman he had met on Westminster 
Bridge to the door of the front room. 


basil AMD Annette . 293 

“You have kept your promise,” she said. “Come 
in.” 

A younger woman than she rose as he entered, cast 
one brief glance at him, and immediately left the room. 
The window blinds were down and the gas was lighted. 
His strange acquaintance of the previous night was 
dressed in deep mourning. Her face was white, and 
swollen with weeping. 

“ I prayed for a miracle last night,” she said, “ but my 
prayers were not answered. I had almost repented that 
I asked you to come, but still it is right, it is right. If 
you have a heart it should be a punishment to you for all 
you have made me suffer.” 

“ I do not in the least understand you,” said Basil. 

Had it not been for her grief her look would have been 
scornful. She paid no heed to his words, but contin- 
ued : 

“ When I said last night that I wanted nothing of you 
I said what I meant. When you go from here. I wish 
never to see your face again. It will be useless for you 
to trouble me.” 

“I shall not trouble you,” said Basil in a gentle tone, 
which seemed to make her waver; but she would not 
yield to this softer mood. 

“That you are poor to-day,” she said, “ and I am well- 
to-do, so far as money goes, proves that there is a Provi- 
dence. Years ago — very soon after your desertion of me 
— I cast you from my heart, and resolved never to admit 
you into it again. It might have been otherwise had you 
behaved honestly to me, for I loved you, and you made 
me believe that you loved me. It was better for me that 
the tie which bound us should be broken. I have led a 
respectable life, and shall continue to do so. I am the 
happier for it.” 

“ For heaven's sake,” cried Basil, explain what it is you 

accuse me of,” 


294 


BASIL AND. ANNETTE . 


“Ask your own heart. Although there is an apparent 
change in you, you are still the same, I see, in cunning 
and duplicity. But I will listen to no subterfuges ; there 
is no possibility of your justifying yourself, and your 
power over me is gone. Towards you my heart is cold 
as stone.” 

“You are laboring under some singular delusion,” said 
Basil, “and I can but listen to you in wonder.” 

“Still the same, still the same,” said the woman. “You 
used to boast of your superior powers, and that you were 
so perfect an actor that you could make the cleverest 
believe that black was white. See what it has brought 
you to” — she pointed to his rags. “I have no pity for 
you ; as you have sown, so have you reaped. So might 
I have reaped had I not seen the pit you treacherously 
dug for me ; so might I have reaped had I not repented 
before it was entirely too late. I owe you this much 
gratitude — that it was your base desertion of me that 
showed me my sin. Had you remained I might have 
sunk lower and lower till grace and redemption were lost 
to me forever. What expiation was possible for me 
I have made, with sincere repentance, with sincere sor- 
row for my error. It would be well for you if you could 
say the same. You saw my mother downstairs. She 
cast me off, as you know, but she opened her arms to me 
when I convinced her of my sincerity, when I vowed to her 
on my knees to live a pure life. I am again her daughter. 
You see these drawn blinds, you see my dress, you see that 
this is a house of mourning. Can you guess what for? ” 

“Indeed I cannot,” said Basil, “except that you have 
lost one who is dear to you. What comfort can I, a 
stranger, offer you that you cannot find for yourself? It 
is small consolation to say that your loss is a common 
human experience. Be faith your solace. There is a 
hereafter. ” 

Her scorn and horror of him, now plainly expressed in 


BASIL AMD ANNETTE. 


295 

her face, so overpowered her that she allowed him to 
finish without interruption. 

“You, a stranger to me ! ” she cried. “Will you still 
wear the mask — or is it, is it possible that the rank selfish- 
ness and callousness of your nature can have made you 
forget ? All was over between us — but a link remained, 
a link of sweet and beautiful love which the good Lord 
has taken from me. I bow my head ; I will not, I must 
not rebel ! ” She folded • her hands, and, moving to the 
darkened window, stood for a few moments there en- 
gaged in silent prayer. Presently she spoke again. “ My 
fond hopes pictured a bright and happy future for her. I, 
her mother, would be forever by her side, guiding her 
from the pitfalls which lay before young and confiding 
innocence. Her life should be without stain, without 
reproach. She did not know, she would never have 
known, the stain which rests upon mine. It is revealed 
to her now. Forgive me, my darling, and look down 
with pity upon me ! Yes, out of my sin I created a gar- 
den of love — for her, who was to me what sight would 
be to the blind, through whose sweet and pure influence 
I was led to the Divine throne. My fond hopes have 
been dashed to the ground — they are dead, never to be 
revived. Come with me.” 

With noiseless footsteps she walked out of the room, 
and Basil followed her to another on the same landing. 
Softly, tenderly, as though fearful of disturbing what was 
therein, she turned the handle, and she and Basil stood 
in the presence of death. . 

Of death in its fairest form. Upon the bed lay the body 
of a young girl whose age might be ten. The sweet 
beauty, the peace, the perfect rest in the child's face, 
moved Basil to tears : she looked like a sleeping an- 
gel. 

“ Oh, my darling, my darling ! ” sobbed the bereaved 
mother, sinking to her knees. “Pray for me; intercede 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


296 

for me. Unconsciously I strayed ; I saw not my sin. Oh, 
child of shame and love, bring peace to my breaking 
heart, and do not turn from me when we meet above ! " 

Basil spoke no word ; some consciousness of the truth 
was slowly coming to him,* There was a silence in the 
room for several minutes ; then the woman rose to her 
feet. 

“ Kiss her,” she said. ‘‘When you last saw her she 
was a baby. If she were living, and saw your face, she 
would look upon you as a stranger ; but now she knows 
the truth/' 

Then Basil understood. “Yes," he said, inly, “now 
she knows the truth." 

He stooped and kissed the child’s lips, and the mother's 
tears broke out afresh ; checking them, presently, she 
said. 

“It was by the strangest chance I met you last night. 
I have done what I conceived to be my duty. Now, go,” 
and she pointed to the door. 

“I will obey you,” said Basil ; “ but I must say a word 
to you first, in the next room." 

She looked at him for a moment hesitatingly, then 
nodded her head, and they left the chamber of death as 
noiselessly as they had entered it. 

“I did not intend it,” said the woman, and taking a 
tress of fair hair from her bosom, and, dividing it, she 
offered him a portion. “ You may like to keep it as a 
remembrance." 

“ I thank you humbly," said Basil ; “it may help me 
on my way." 

A look of incredulous wonder flashed into her face, 
but remained there only an instant, and she shook her 
head as though she were answering a question she had 
asked mutely of herself. 

“Before us lies an open grave," she said. “ You and I 
speak now together for the last time on earth. I forgive 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


297 

you, as I hope to be forgiven. You have something to 
say to me?” 

“Yes; and I entreat you, however strange you may 
think my question, to suspend your indignation for a while 
and answer me in plain words.” 

“ I will endeavor to do so, if it is such a question as 
you should address to me,” 

“ I will not fret you by arguments, or expostulations. 
You have suffered deeply, and from my heart I pity you. 
Plainly, whom do you take me for ? ” 

“ For yourself — for no other man, be sure.” 

“ But let me hear my name from your lips.” 

“As you insist upon it,” she said, with sad contempt, 
“though such a farce should not be played at such a 
time, but when were you otherwise than you are ! You 
are Newman Chaytor. ” 

“ I,” said Basil, speaking very slowly, “am Newman 
Chaytor ? ” 

“You are he; there lives not such another, and re- 
membering all that has passed between us; remembering 
your vows and oaths, for that I say, thank God ! If you 
have any reason for going by another name, for wishing 
to be known by another name — and you may have, 
heaven help you ! — be sure that I will not betray you. 
You are dead to me, as I am dead to you.’’ 

“Look at me well,” said Basil. “ If you were upon 
your oath would you swear that I am the man you say I 
am ? ” 

“To swear otherwise would be to swear falsely. What 
crime have you committed that you should stand in dread 
of being known ? ” 

“None. It is not to be expected that you will believe 
when I tell you that you are the victim of delusion, as I 
am the victim of a foul and monstrous plot.” 

“Who would believe you? Denial is easy enough, 
and of course you will deny, having reason to do so. 
But come into the light,” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


298 

She raised the blind, and he stepped to the window 
where the light shone upon his face. 

“ You are Newman Chaytor,” she repeated, letting 
the blind fall. 

He bowed his head, and said, “You have just cause 
for your pitiless resentment ; and whether I am or am not 
the man you believe me to be, I bow my head before 
you in sorrow and shame. The day may come — I do 
not know how, or in what way it may be brought about, 
for I am at the extremity of misery — when, showing you 
this ” — he touched his breast, where he placed the lock of 
her child’s hair — “and recalling this interview, you will 
see the error into which you have innocently fallen. Till 
then, or forever, farewell.” 

“ One moment,” said the woman, with trembling 
accents, “what has passed cannot be recalled, nor will I 
speak of the folly of your denial of the solemn truth. It 
is a meaningless proceeding.” 

“To me,” said Basil, interrupting her, “it means every- 
thing. Honor, truth, fidelity, faith in virtue and good- 
ness, all are at stake. It may never come to an issue, 
for the end seems near, but heaven may yet have some 
mercy in store for me. As you prayed for a miracle last 
night which was not vouchsafed you, so will I pray for 
a miracle to help me to a just conclusion of my bitter 
trials.” 

A pitiful smile accompanied his words. “It is not 
for me, one suffering man among millions happier, I 
trust, than myself, to doubt Divine Goodness. The eternal 
principle of Justice remains, and will, now or hereafter, 
assert itself, as it has ever done. May peace, and comfort, 
and happiness be yours.” 

“I offered you money last night,” said the woman, 
impressed by what he said, but making no comment 
upon it. “ Will you not accept it now ? ” 

“I thank you— no,” he said, bowing to her with 
humility, “ Farewell, ” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


299 


CHAPTER XXX 

Basil’s mind was quite clear when he left the house, 
and as he had bowed his head to the bereaved mother when 
she declared him to be Newman Chaytor, the villain who 
had betrayed and cast her off, so did he bow his head to 
the elder woman in the shop below, who flung upon him 
a look of anger and abhorrence as he passed from her 
sight. In the light of the infamous wrong inflicted upon 
this family, the wrong inflicted upon himself seemed to 
be lessened. Suffering and humiliation were his portion, 
but not shame ; herein Newman Chaytor was powerless. 
There had grown in his mind an ideal presentment of 
womanhood which shed a refined and delicate grace 
upon all his dealings with the sex. His knowledge of 
the world had taught him that some had fallen and were 
vile, but he had no harsh thoughts even for these hapless 
ones, whom he regarded with tender pity. There were 
women with whom he had come in contact whose im- 
ages were touched with sacred light. His mother was 
one, Annette was another ; and it was partly this good 
influence which enabled him to bear, with some degree 
of moral fortitude, the weight of the troubles through 
which he was passing. A heavy load had been added to 
these troubles by the accusation which now had been 
brought against him ; another man’s sins had been thrust 
upon his shoulders, and the circumstantial evidence 
against him was so strong that he could scarcely hope to 


300 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


break it down. He had said that he would pray for a 
miracle to aid him in his bitter trials, and indeed it seemed 
as if nothing short of a miracle would serve him. But 
although none occurred to bring the truth to light, new 
experiences were awaiting him as strange as any within 
his ken, and one, with some sweet touch of humanity in 
it, was to come indirectly through the enemy who had 
played him false. 

Of the fourpence he had left one penny went that day 
for food, and he contrasted his position with that of a 
shipwrecked man cast away in a boat, helpless on a wild 
and desolate sea, with starvation staring him in the face. 
“Among these millions/’ he thought, “I cannot be the 
only one ; there must be others adrift as I am. Heaven 
pity them ! ” It was curious that, revolving this theme 
in his mind, he looked about for men and women whose 
state resembled his own, and, fancying he saw some, 
longed for money more for their sake than for his own. 
Only in small natures is grief entirely selfish. One 
question continually presented itself. What could he do 
to better himself — what do to turn the tide ? He saw 
people begging in the roadways^ and others fighting des- 
perately for dear life, their weapons a few boxes of 
matches. If he had known where to purchase half-a- 
dozen boxes for the threepence which still remained of 
his fortune he would have risked the venture, but he did 
not know where to go for the investment, and those he 
asked for information scowled at him or turned away, 
conscious perhaps that their ranks were overcrowded, or 
that the addition of one to the horde of mendicants would 
lessen their chances. During these times he gained 
pregnant knowledge of a social nature. Living entirely 
in the streets pictures presented themselves in poor and 
rich thoroughfares alike. His poverty made the contrasts 
startling. Ladies in carriages nursing overfed lapdogs ; 
small morsels of humanity shuffling along with their toes 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


peeping out of their boots. In Covent Garden hothouse 
fruit at fabulous prices, and white-faced mortals picking 
up refuse and stealthily devouring it. Grand parties in 
great mansions, priceless jewels flashing as the ladies 
stepped out of their carriages ; in a street hard by a woe- 
worn girl asleep on a doorstep, with a pallid baby in her 
arms. These pictures did not embitter him : he pitied 
the poor and envied not the rich, and had it been his 
good fortune to be employed as a descriptive writer his 
pen would not have been dipped in gall. He did not 
purposely linger as he walked the streets, for the reason 
that when he lagged he attracted the notice of policemen, 
who followed him slowly, and quietly noted his move- 
ments. On such occasions, feeling himself an object of 
suspicion, he would quicken his steps to escape closer 
observation. Through all these sad wanderings he was 
ever on the watch for Newman Chaytor ; he would not' 
allow himself to sink into absolute apathy ; while life re- 
mained he would do what lay in his power to lift himself 
out of the slough of despond. Only when his strength 
was exhausted would he lie down and die. Thus did he 
endure three more doleful days, at the end of which his 
last penny was spent. “ The end is coming,” he thought, 
and waited for it. He had been five nights now without 
a bed, and on three of these nights had been soaked to 
the skin. This exposure, with lack of nourishing food, 
had already told upon a system constitutionally sound 
and healthy. That the end was coming was no idle re- 
flection ; he felt it in his bones. Whither should he turn 
for succor? Naturally strong, and willing and anxious 
to work even for the barest pittance, he found himself 
more forsaken and powerless in this city of unrest than 
Robinson Crusoe on his desolate island. Charity is pro- 
verbially cold ; it is frozen indeed when a willing man is 
driven to such a pass. 

Another day passed, and another soaking night, and 


BASIL AMD ANNETTE. 


302 

then fever threatened. Delirious fancies took possession 
of him, haunted, tortured, and deluded him. He laughed 
aloud in the street, and aroused to momentary reason by the 
looks of the passers-by, shambled away in silence that 
engirt him as with iron bands — to break out again presently 
when he was in another street. Each night some im- 
pulse for which he sought no reason led his steps in the 
direction of the bridge where he had met Newman Chay- 
tor s victim ; had he seen her again, and she had offered 
him money, it is doubtful whether he would have had the 
strength to refuse. 

Exhausted and spent, having been thirty hours without 
food, he clung to the buttress of the bridge, and with dim 
eyes looked forward on the river's lights. There seemed 
to be some meaning in their unrest ; from the mysterious 
depths messages from another world came to his dazed 
’mind. “Presently, presently," he thought, “but I should 
like first to see Annette, and undeceive her. I would give 
my best heart’s blood to set myself straight with her. 
Too late to save her — too late, too late!" He had no 
idea of seeking eternal rest by deliberate action, only 
that he felt it was very near, and could not be long 
delayed. 

How he craved for food ! How the demon Hunger was 
tearing at his vitals ! His head fell forward, his mouth 
sucked his coat sleeve. A policeman touched his arm ; 
he languidly raised his head, and the policeman gazed 
steadily at him, and then proceeded on his beat without 
speaking a word. Maybe he recognized that a case of 
genuine suffering was before him. Basil remained in the 
same position, his eyes turned in the direction the officer 
was taking. But he did not see him ; he was blind to all 
surrounding things. Therefore it Was that he had no 
consciousness of the presence 6f an old woman, poorly 
dressed, who had stopped, when the policeman stopped, 
and appeared rooted to the spot as her, eyes fell upon 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


303 

Basil's face. Suddenly the emotion which for a brief 
space had overpowered her, found voice. With a pierc- 
ing scream she tottered towards Basil, cleared the gray 
hair from her eyes, and peered up into his face. Then 
with a piercing scream she cried : 

“Newman ! My son, my darling, darling son ! O God 
be thanked for restoring you to me ! ” 

She threw her trembling arms around him, but Basil 
did not feel them, and had no understanding of her words. 
With a dolorous groan he slid from her arms to the 
ground, and lay there without sense or motion. Natures 
demands had reached a supreme point, and the groan 
which issued from his lips was the last effort of exhausted 
strength. 

Although the bridge appeared to be deserted, with only 
the policeman, the old woman, and Basil in view, a small 
knot of persons, as if by magic, instantly surrounded 
the fallen man and the woman who knelt by his side. 
The policeman, attracted by the scream, turned, and 
slowly sauntered towards the group. 

“Whats the matter, mother?" asked an onlooker. 

“It’s my son," moaned the woman, “my dear son 
Newman. He has come from the goldfields, and is 
dying, dying ! ” 

“ Don’t look much like a goldfield’s man," observed one 
of the group. “ Where’s his nuggets? ” 

“ He has had a hard time," continued the woman, whom 
the reader will recognize as Mrs. Chaytor. “ He wrote 
to me about his hardships. See what they have brought 
him to. Will none of you help me? Here is money — 
I am not so poor as I look ; my poor husband has had a 
bit of luck. For pity’s sake, help me! O my son, my 
son ! " 

“I am a doctor," said a gentleman, pushing his way 
through. Kneeling by Mrs. Chaytor’s side, he lifted 
Basils head on his knee, and made a rapid examination, 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


3°4 

“The poor fellow is starving, I should say. Run, one of 
you, and fetch a quartern of brandy — and some water if 
you can get it.” 

Mrs. Chaytor held out a trembling hand, and a woman 
snatched the money from it and darted off. The police- 
man, who had by this time joined the group, shook his 
head disapprovingly. 

“ You’ve seen the last of that,” he said. 

He was mistaken, however ; the woman returned with 
two flat bottles, one containing brandy, the other water. 
With these the doctor moistened Basil’s lips, and forced 
a few drops down his throat. 

“You see,” he said, addressing himself to Mrs. Chaytor, 
“that he is not yet dead. Whether he lives or dies 
depends not upon himself. I think I heard you say you 
are his mother. ” 

“I am his unhappy mother,” sobbed Mrs. Chaytor. 
“Oh, how I have prayed for his return, and he is sent 
to me now like this ! It is cruel, it is unjust. Save him 
for me, doctor, and I will bless you to the last hour of 
my life ! ” 

“We will see what can be done. Do you live near 
here?” 

“We live in Southwark Road.” 

“ Here is a cab passing. Let us get him into it ; there 
is no time to lose.” 

A dozen arms were ready to assist him, but Basil had 
grown so thin that the kind doctor lifted him with ease, 
and put him in the cab. Then, giving the driver the 
address which he obtained from Mrs. Chaytor, they 
drove off quickly, Mrs. Chaytor holding Basil in her arms, 
and crooning over him as the priceless treasure of her 
life. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


305 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

“Am I awake or dreaming? ” 

This was the thought that passed through Basils mind 
as he opened his eyes. Two weeks had passed since he 
had been rescued from death, and for the most of that time 
he had been unconscious. But certain floating impressions 
were his, which now as his eyes travelled round the walls 
of the room in which he lay, he endeavored to recall. 
It was not without difficulty that he succeeded, but after 
long and determined — if in his weak state such a word may 
be used — effort, these impressions began to marshal them- 
selves. But just at the moment that memory reasserted 
its power an interruption occurred, and Basil, bent upon 
his mental task, closed his eyes, and waited once more for 
solitude. 

An old woman stole softly into the room, and crept with 
noiseless tread close to his bed. She stooped over him, 
kissed him tenderly, arranged the bedclothes about him, 
smoothed his pillow, and kissed him again. What touched 
his feelings deeply was the exceeding tenderness of these 
kisses, which could only have been bestowed upon one 
who was very dear. What meaning lay in this strange 
tenderness to him who not so long since was forsaken by 
all, and coming from one whose face was absolutely un- 
familiar to him? For with excusable cunning he had 
partially raised his lids without being observed, and his 
half-veiled eyes rested upon the woman who was attend- 
ing him. She was an old woman with gray and white hair, 
and there were signs of deep suffering on her lined face. 
She looked like one who had experienced great trouble, but 
Basil note4 also in her countenance an expression of 


;o6 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


gratitude which relieved the weight of years and care 
which lay heavy upon her. He allowed his lids to droop, 
and, setting aside awhile the task upon which he was en- 
gaged when she entered the room, ransacked his memory 
for a clue. He could find none, even though his mental 
efforts sent him wandering weakly among his childhood's 
days. While thus engaged, with his eyes still closed, he 
was conscious that another person had entered the room, 
and the words which passed between them reached his 
senses. 

“Good-morning,” in the cheerful voice of a man. 

“Good-morning, doctor.” 

Doctor ! He was being cared for, then, and friends 
were by his side. Of this he was assured ; he required 
no further proof than the tender actions of the woman 
and the soft voice in which she returned the doctors 
greeting. But why should these strangers care for him ? 
for strangers to him they were, though their intentions 
could not be doubted. 

“ How is our patient this morning ? ” 

“No worse, I hope, doctor. He has been very, very 
quiet. ” 

“That is a good sign.” 

Basil felt the doctor’s fingers on his pulse, and then his 
head was gently raised, and he knew that his tempera- 
ture was being taken. He betrayed no consciousness of 
their presence ; perhaps the conversation would supply 
him with the clue for which he was seeking. 

“The fever has almost gone in a few days he will be 
quite well. Has he not spoken at all ? ” 

“No, doctor.” 

“Not even in his sleep ? ” 

“No, doctor, not a word has passed his lips.” 

“All the signs are good. Has he opened his eyes ? ” 

“No, doctor. If he only would ! If he would only 

recognise rned I could die happy, then,” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


307 

•‘You must not talk of dying. All that belongs to the 
past.” 

“No, doctor,” said the woman with a sigh, “it belongs 
to the future.” 

“ I stand corrected in my philosophy. But, tush, tush ! 
We must not have you breaking down. I shall insist 
upon your getting a nurse for our young gentleman here.” 

“No, doctor, no,” in almost a fierce tone; “no one 
shall nurse my dear boy but myself. Have I waited all 
these years to let another woman take my place ? ” 

“Becalm. But I warn you that you are overtaxing 
yourself, and at your time of life it is not safe. You 
have done your duty ; no woman can do more.” 

“ I will not allow anybody else to take my place. It 
belongs to me ; it is my right.” 

“There, there, don’t agitate yourself. I hope our young 
friend will be grateful for what you have done for him.” 

“He will be; he always has been ; you do not know 
his nature — the most loving, the tenderest. Can you not 
see it in his face ? ” 

“It is a good face, and I have taken something more 
than a doctor’s interest in the case. It is, indeed, a 
mercy that you came across him on the bridge a fortnight 
ago. Had he fallen into the hands of strangers it is hardly 
likely he would have pulled through. It was touch and 
go with him.” 

“ Providence led my steps. I am humbly, humbly 
grateful. ” 

“You saved him from death — I may tell you plainly 
now that he is in a fair way of recovery. And how is our 
other patient ? ” 

“Still the same, doctor. Will you go and see him ? ” 

“ You must come with me ; he is suspicious of me, as 
you know, and would order me out of the room if you 
were not by.” 4 

“Can I leave my dear boy with safety ? ” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


308 

“With perfect safety ; he will not awake from sleep for 
a long time yet, and when he does it will not harm him 
to find himself alone.” 

“ He must not find himself alone — I will not have it, I 
will not, I will not ! ” 

“Well, well, surely you can take my word. He will 
sleep for hours ; it is nature’s restorative.” 

“Doctor,” said the woman, in a tone so solicitous that 
Basil was deeply moved, “ he will recover? ” 

“ He will. Come ; I have not much time at my 
disposal.” 

He walked to the door, but before she left the room, 
Basil felt her tender hands about him again, ministering 
to his ease and comfort. Presently he knew by the clos- 
ing of the door that he was alone again. Then he applied 
himself to the task of recalling his impressions. They 
came to him slowly, and the sequence of events passed 
through his mind in fair order. 

He recalled the dolorous days of hunger and privation, 
the meeting of the young woman on the bridge, his visit 
to her house, and the cruel accusation she brought against 
him. When he struggled against it she had desired him 
to come into the light, and had said, “ You are Newman 
Chaytor.” With this pronouncement and condemnation 
he left her, and the look of abhorrence the woman’s 
mother had cast upon him lived in his memory as a burn- 
ing brand. Then followed the days through which he 
starved and suffered till he was on the bridge looking for- 
ward on the river’s lights, and waiting for death. He had 
no remembrance of what subsequently occurred on that 
night, and on many days and nights afterwards. Sounds 
of voices he had heard, but not the sense of the words 
that were spoken : except that on one occasion something 
had reached his senses to the effect that the room in which 
he lay was unhealthy, and that it would be better if he 
were removed to more airy quarters. He was dimly con- 


BASIL AMD ANNETTE . 


309 

scious that this was done, and that gentle hands had lifted 
him from his bed, and that he was carried to another 
house through fresher air which flowed softly over his 
fevered brow. Had this really been done, or was he 
deluding himself with fancies ? He opened his eyes and 
gazed around. The room was large, and there was but 
little furniture in it, but everything was clean and neat. 
There was a pleasant paper on the walls, the de vice being 
flowers, the colors of which, though subdued, had some 
healthful brightness in them. On a table near his bed 
were medicine bottles, a basin with soup jelly in it, and a 
plate of grapes. The loving care with which he was being 
nursed was evident whichever way he turned. There was 
something more than mere kindness, there was heartfelt 
devotion, in these evidences and in what he had lately 
heard. The woman to whom he owed this great debt had 
saved him from death — the doctor had said as much, and 
Basil did not doubt that it was true. Whatever could have 
been her motive he inwardly acknowledged that she had 
rendered him a service it would be hard, if not impossible, 
for him to repay. Saved from death! To what end? 
That he might live to clear himself from the foul accusa- 
tion which hung over him, to avenge himself, to punish 
the guilty, perhaps even yet to save Annette. A debt, 
indeed, that could never be repaid. Exhausted with 
thought, he sank into slumber, with a growing hope in his 
heart that there might yet be some brightness for him in 
the future. 

When he awoke again it was night. Opening his eyes, 
they fell upon the form of the woman who had tended him. 
She was kneeling by his bed, gazing upon his face. A 
shaded lamp in the room enabled him to see her clearly. 

“Newman ! ” she said, in a low voice of joy, and she 
half rose and stretched forth her arms. 

That hated name! Denial was on his lips, but the 
voice of joy, the agonized appeal of love expressed in her 


3io 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


eyes, arrested his speech. And indeed at that moment 
there suddenly flashed upon his mind some glimmering 
of the truth. 

“Who speaks?” he asked, awed and stricken by the 
appeal. 

“Your mother, your fond, your loving mother. Oh, 
my son, don't break my heart by saying you don't know 
me ! Newman, Newman, my beloved boy, kiss me, give 
me one word of love. I shall die, I shall die, if you turn 
from me ! ” 

He could not repulse her ; he felt that the sentence upon 
this loving heart was his to pronounce. Scarcely knowing 
what he did, he held out his hands. She seized and kissed 
them again and again, then fell upon his neck and pressed 
him convulsively to her. 

“ Who are you ? ” he said softly. 

“Your mother, your faithful, faithful mother. Did you 
not hear me ? Have I spoken too soon ? O Newman, 
Newman, give me one kiss, one kind look. My poor 
heart is breaking ! ” 

“ Tell me who I am,” said Basil. 

“You are our dear, our darling son, whom God in his 
infinite mercy has sent back to us, to comfort us, to cheer 
the little time that remains to us.” 

Her mouth was close to his ; her quivering lips pleaded 
for the kiss for which she yearned. He could not resist 
her ; their lips met ; her tears gushed forth. 

“Forgive me,” he said ; “ I have been ill so long, and 
my mind may be wandering still. Is it the truth that I 
am Newman Chaytor ? ” 

/ “Yes, my dear, yes, you are the only being left to us 
on earth, the only link of love we have. If it distresses 
you to think, if the effort is too painful, rest till the morn- 
ing ; I will watch over you. Heaven has heard my 
prayers ; my darling is restored to me. I can die happy 
now. The clouds have passed away ; there is nothing 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


3 11 

but sunshine ; your future shall be happy ; we will make 
it so. Fortune has smiled upon us. Oh, it is wonderful, 
wonderful — and just as you have come back to us. But 
we will not speak of it to-night ; we will wait till to-mor- 
row, when you will be stronger.” 

“ No, tell me something more — I am strong enough to 
listen.” 

“Oh, my poor boy, you have suffered much, you have 
had great troubles ! ” 

“Yes, great and bitter troubles. Bring the lamp nearer. 
Am I changed ? ” 

“Only a little paler than you used to be, and a little 
thinner. There is no other change in you. Your 
father ” 

“My father ! ” 

“ He lives. Newman, he lives, but he is very ill, and I 
can see that the doctor fears for him. But he loves you 
still. Do not think hardly of him, Newman ; he will not 
be long with us. Say that you forgive him !” 

“ What have I to forgive ? ” 

“There speaks the noble heart of my darling boy. You 
can bring peace and comfort to him, as you have brought 
it to me. You can brighten his last hours. You will do 
it, will you not, my dear boy ? ” 

“ What lies in my power,” said Basil slowly, “to repay 
you for your goodness to me, that I will do.” 

“I was sure of it, I was sure of it. You will find him 
changed, Newman ; he wanders in his mind sometimes, 
but you will be gentle with him.” 

“Yes, I will be gentle with him.” 

“We will forget the past — there shall be nothing in our 
hearts but love and forgiveness.” 

“Listen a moment. If anybody came to you and said 
I am not your son, would you believe him ? ” 

“You ask it to try me, but you little know your mother’s 
heart, If an angel from heaven were to come and say so, 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


312 

I should not believe him ; I should know it was an evil 
spirit that spoke. I was going to speak to you of our 
good fortune. Shall I go on ? ” 

“Yes, go on.” 

“ It happened only a week before 1 met you — 0, heaven 
be praised for it ! — on the bridge. Do you remember, 
when everything went wrong with us, and we were 
plunged in poverty, that your father still had some shares 
in mining companies left, shares that were supposed not 
to be worth the paper they were printed on ! Do you 
remember it, my dear boy ? ” 

“Well? ” 

“ It is only three weeks ago that a gentleman found out 
where we were living — we were very, very poor, New- 
man — and told us that these shares were valuable, were 
worth a great deal of money. Fortunately your father had 
not destroyed them, and fortunately, too, when the gentle- 
man called it was on one of your father’s sensible days. 
He found the shares, and some of them have been sold. 
We are now rich — yes, my dear boy, rich. We should 
never murmur against heaven’s decrees ; it was all ordained 
—that this should happen at the time it did, and that I 
should meet you a few days afterwards, in time to save 
you. Newman, my dear, you had not a penny in your 
pockets.” 

*' I was starving.” 

“My poor boy, my poor boy! Oh, how cruelly we 
have treated you ! ” 

“You must not cay that. You are the soul of good- 
ness ; you have saved me from death, from despair, from 
shame, from degradation. I have something to live for 
now. Hope revives. I have an enemy who has con- 
spired to ruin my life. What shall be done to him ? ” 

“ He must be punished.” 

“He shall be.” 

“The monster ! To conspire against my dear lad. If 


BASIL AMD ANNETTE . 


313 

I were not old and weak, I would seek him out myself. 
He should learn what a mother could do for a beloved 
son/' 

“ He shall be punished, I say, and his punishment shall 
come through those who are nearest to him, and should 
be dearest/’ 

“ It sounds hard, Newman, but it is just, it is just.” 

“I am tired,” said Basil, “ I can talk no more ; I want 
to sleep.” 

“ Sleep, my dear boy ; I will watch by you.” 

“No, you must seek rest yourself; I insist upon it; it 
will do me good to know that you are resting after your 
long labor.” 

“Are you sure you will not want me ? ” 

“Quite sure ; I am gaining strength rapidly ; to-morrow 
I shall be almost well. Go.” 

“When did I disobey my dear lad ? ” said Mrs. Chaytor. 
“When did I disregard his lightest wish ? He repays me 
with love, and I am happy, happy ! This is the brightest 
night of my life, Newman. What have I done that such 
joy should be mine? It is more than I deserve. Yes, I 
will go, though I don’t want rest— indeed, indeed I do 
not. I could stop up for weeks nursing my dear lad, and 
never feel fatigue.” The tears rose in Basil’s eyes as he 
gazed upon her worn and wasted face. “Good-night, 
my dear, dear boy. God bless and guard you ! ” 

He could not deny her the kiss for which she mutely 
pleaded, and she prepared to leave him ; but she came 
back a dozen times to assure herself that he was comfor- 
table, that there was not a crease on his pillow, that the 
clothes were smoothly laid over him, and to hover about 
him with soft accents of love. At length he pretended to 
be asleep, and she crept from the room so softly that he 
did not hear her footfall. 

Being alone now, he could think of what had passed, 
of the revelation that had been made to him, of the po- 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


3*4 

sition in which he stood, and how it behoved him to act. 
The woman believed him to be her son, the idol of her 
heart, the one supreme treasure which heaven and earth 
contained for her. In that belief she had rescued him 
from death, and by so doing had perhaps afforded him 
the opportunity to redeem his name and honor. To un- 
deceive her would break her heart ; of this he had no 
doubt. How perfect was her love ! How tender and 
beautiful were its evidences ! He remembered his own 
mother, and knew how pure was the love which existed 
between them ; but never till this moment had it been 
given him to know to what wondrous extent a mother’s 
love could go. That Newman had been a bad son, that 
he had been profligate and false — of this he was certain ; 
such a nature as Newman’s was capable of nought else ; 
but all this was forgotten and forgiven. Nay, instead of 
entreaties for pardon being expected from him, it was 
himself that was asked to forgive. Something more than 
gratitude stirred his heart as he thought of Mrs. Chaytor’s 
goodness, a feeling of pity and affection rose within him, 
and he bethought himself in what way he could repay her 
for the great service she had rendered to him. 

Had it been Newman, indeed, whom she had rescued 
from death and dishonor, how would he have acted ? 
Natures do not change, and Newman would have followed 
the bent of his. He would have brought fresh sorrows up- 
on her head ; he would have stripped her of her new fortune 
and squandered it in dissolute practices ? Would it not be 
a fine revenge to make the end of her life sweet and beauti- 
ful by the loving care and gratitude it was in Basil’s power 
to bestow? His heart glowed at the thought. The sterner 
part of his revenge could still be carried out. He would 
have means to prosecute his search for Newman and An- 
nette, and it would be the easiest matter to find an excuse 
for absence, if it were necessary that he should go person- 
ally to seek them. Thus two good ends would be 


BASIL AMD ANNETTE. 


315 

attained, one certain in the joy it would bring to a good 
woman’s heart, the other as yet uncertain, inasmuch as 
the roads which would lead to it were enveloped in dark- 
ness. 

Yes, he would have means to punish the guilty. But 
were those means his to use? Could he with justice em- 
ploy them in the task upon which he was engaged, and 
which Mrs. Chaytor had saved him to prosecute? This 
was the question which now obtruded itself. 

Why not ? Had not Newman Chaytor, by the vilest 
conduct, by long systematic deceit and treachery, fraud- 
ulently obtained possession of his fortune, and was he not 
now using it for his own selfish pleasures ? Could human 
cunning go further than Newman had done in his vile 
plot — could human baseness reach a baser depth ? No. 
There would be a strange and inscrutable justice in using 
the villain’s weapons to bring the villain to bay. 

There was another consideration : Annette. If in the 
morning he declared himself to be Basil Whittingham, if 
he left the loving mother in sorrow and tribulation, and 
rejected the opportunity which, through no scheming on 
his part, had presented itself, if he threw himself once 
more penniless upon the world, what chance had he of 
finding Annette in time, maybe, to save her from a life of 
deepest unhappiness ? This last consideration induced 
him to resolve upon his course of action. For the present 
he would allow matters to go on as they would. He 
would not undeceive Mrs. Chaytor ; she should, for as 
long or as short a time as circumstances permitted, rest 
in a delusion which had filled her heart with joy‘. She 
should believe that he, Basil, was her son indeed, and he 
would work and wait for events. 

But he would be strictly just, as far as he could. What 
money he used should be used to one end, and to one end 
only ; unless, indeed (and a strange smile wreathed his 
lips as this view presented itself) collateral disclosures 


3 1 6 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 

were revealed to him of Newman Chaytor's home life of 
villainy and treachery which pleaded for some kind of 
compensation. Then would he use some of Chaytor’s 
money to repair the wrong. A devious road to justice, 
but a justifiable one. Having thus determined, sleep 
descended upon him. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

Early the next morning he awoke. The sun was shin- 
ing into the room, and he was alone. There was some 
kind of stir in the house for which he could not account, 
and the cause of which he was curious to ascertain. 
Feeling that his strength had returned he rose from bed, 
and although a natural weakness was upon him, he suc- 
ceeded in partially dressing himself. While thus em- 
ployed the door was opened and the doctor entered the 
room. 

“Ah,” said the doctor, “as I expected. You are your- 
self again.” He was a young man, and had a cheery 
voice and manner, which, used with discretion, and not 
allowed to become too bluff, are invaluable aids to a 
medical practitioner. 

“I am almost well, I think,” said Basil. 

“But we must be careful,” said the doctor, “ we must 
husband our strength. You have a good constitution, 
and that has served you.” Although his voice was cheer- 
ful, he spoke with a certain reserve. 

“ Are you not here very early ? ” asked Basil. 

“ I am,” replied the doctor, “ much earlier than usual. 
The fact is I was called in.” 

. “They are too anxious about me.” 

“ Well, yes, but I was not called in to see you. Your 
parents required me. Are you strong enough to hear 
gome great news ? ” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


3*7 


“Let me know it, quickly.” 

“To be plain, your good mother has overtaxed herself, 
and your father’s illness has taken a serious turn. Your 
mother did not wish me to tell you ; she asked me to 
think of some excuse why she could not come to you ; 
but in the circumstances the truth is best.” 

“Yes, the truth is best. Disguise nothing from me. 
See — I am really strong and well.” 

“You will do, if you are careful. As I said, your 
mother has overtaxed her strength, and she is now suffer- 
ing from it. I warned her a score of times, but she would 
not leave your side ; it is wonderful the devotion of these 
good women.” 

“Is it anything serious?” 

“ I fear so ; she is old, and seems to have gone through 
some serious troubles.” 

“ I will go and see her.” 

“Not till you have breakfast. I have ordered it for 
you, and if you will allow me I will join you.” 

“ You are very welcome.” 

The maid entered the room with a tray, which she 
placed on a table ; the doctor threw open the window, 
saying, “Nothing like fresh air. Come, let us fall to.” 

Basil was much taken with him ; he was a man of cul- 
ture and refinement, and knew what he was about. As 
they proceeded with their breakfast he entertained Basil 
with light and agreeable conversation, and it was only 
when the meal was finished that he reverted to the sub- 
ject of his professional visit. 

“Has your mother,” he inquired, “during late years 
endured privation ? ” 

“I have been absent from England for a great many 
years,” replied Basil evasively. 

“And if she had,” continued the doctor, “she would 
conceal it from you ; it is in the nature of such women. 
But I am led to this belief by her condition ; it is not 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


318 

only that she is suffering from the reaction of overtaxed 
endurance, but that she has no reserve strength to draw 
upon.” 

' It was clear to Basil that he believed her case to be 
serious, and in great anxiety he accompanied the doctor 
to the sick-room. There were two beds in the room, one 
occupied by Mrs. Chaytor, the other by her husband. 
Mr. Chaytor was dozing, and Basil, gazing upon him, 
saw a white and wasted face, long-drawn and thin, as 
that of a man whose sands of life were fast running out. 
Mrs. Chaytor cast a look of reproach upon the doctor, as 
she murmured : 

“ You should not have told him ! ” 

“ He was up and dressed, my dear lady,” said the doc- 
tor softly, “ when I went in to see him. You must trust 
me to do what is best for all of you.” 

“ I will, I will,” murmured Mrs. Chaytor. “You have 
restored my dear son to health. O, Newman, Newman ! ” 

Basil bent over her, and kissed her ; she tried to rise 
but had not strength. 

“How good you are, how good, how good!” she 
sobbed. 

Basil was shocked at her appearance, which had under- 
gone a sad change since the previous evening. The 
faithful couple, after a long and anxious life, seemed to 
be both waiting for the summons from the angel of death. 

“It is my turn now to nurse you,” said Basil pityingly. 

“No, you must not; the kind doctor has sent for a 
nurse ; you must take care of yourself. There is a long 
and happy life before you, and you must not waste your 
days upon old people like us. Are your fathers eyes 
closed ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ He wishes to speak to you when he wakes. He is 
quite sensible, and has something to say to you. Doc- 
tor, I must speak to my son alone,” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


3*9 

He was about to forbid any serious conversation, but, 
looking attentively at her, he did not speak the words that 
came to his lips. He nodded, and beckoned to Basil, 
who joined him at the door of the room. 

“ I am going now, ” he said, “ and shall return at noon. 
Do not let your mother exhaust herself. If she speaks 
excitedly, calm her down, and beg her, for your sake — 
it is the appeal that will have the best effect upon her — 
to speak more slowly.” 

“ But had she not better wait till she is stronger? ” 

The doctor gazed at him with serious eyes. “It will 
perhaps be as well not to wait. She seems to have some- 
thing of importance to communicate to you. By-and- 
by may be too late.” 

Inexpressibly grieved, Basil returned to the bedside, 
and took Mrs. Chay tor’s thin hand in his ; her fingers 
clung to his convulsively. 

“I must speak to you about your father,” she said, 
and to save her the effort of raising her voice, Basil laid 
his head on the pillow, close to her mouth. A beautiful 
smile came to her lips as he did so. “Always loving 
and considerate!” she murmured. “Always the same 
tender and unselfish lad ! Newman, your father has not 
seen you yet ; all the time you were lying ill he has been 
unable to rise from his bed. He has strange fancies ; he 
was always strange — but he has been good to me. Re- 
member that, Newman, and bear with him for my sake.” 

“ I will do so.” 

“Thank you, my dear boy. If he says anything about 
the past, listen in silence— even if it is hard to hear, listen 
in silence. He was not so considerate of you as he might 
have been, but we can’t alter our natures, can we, my 
darling? He could never see that young people love 
pleasure, and ought to have it ; he wanted you to be 
grave and serious, as he was, and he would not make 
excuses for little faults. Bear that in mind, my dear,” 


3 2 ° 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“ Yes, I will.” 

“He said to me, ‘ I shall speak to Newman plainly,’ 
and I know what that means. He may speak harsh words, 
but you will be prepared for them. Yesterday he wrote 
a paper, which I think he will give you, and something 
else with it — something that will make your life easy and 
happy. You need never want again, my dear boy, never, 
never. Oh, how you must have suffered ! And you 
were starving, and were too proud to come to us, who 
would have shared our last crust with you. Let me tell 
you about our fortune, Newman. When some checks 
were brought to your father for the shares, he would not 
take them ; he would take nothing but notes and gold ; 
and the money was brought to him, and he has it now 
under his bed. ‘ If I put it into a bank,’ he said, ‘ it will 
break, and I shall be ruined again. I will keep it always 
by me in cash.’ I told him it wasn’t safe, that we were 
old and might be robbed, but he would not listen to me. 
He was always self-willed, you must remember that ; he 
would always have his way, and never thought that any 
one was right but himself. I don’t know how much 
money he has, but it must be thousands of pounds. He 
gave me a hundred pounds in gold to pay the house 
expenses ; I have only spent forty, and there is sixty left. 
Here it is — take it, Newman ; take it, my dear boy. If you 
love me, don’t refuse. That’s right, put it in your pocket : 
all we have belongs to you — every farthing. ‘ When you 
want more,’ he said to me, ‘ask me for it,’ and you shall 
have it. He was never niggardly, I will say that of him ; 
we had a beautiful home once, did we not? How happy 
you made it when you were little — and when you were 
big, too, my dear! One day, when you are married — I 
hope you will marry a good woman, who will love you 
with all her heart and appreciate you — you will find out 
how happy a little child can make a home. Then you 
will think of me, will you not? — then you will know 
better what I mean.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


32! 

Her breath was spent, and she could not continue. 
She closed her eyes, but her fingers tightened upon Basils, 
and presently she began to babble incoherently. The 
entrance of the nurse who had been sent her was a wel- 
come relief to Basil ; the woman had received her instruc- 
tions, and she went about her duties noiselessly. Mrs. 
Chaytor’s grasp relaxed, and Basil removed his hand. 

“ You had best go,” whispered the nurse ; “she wants 
sleep. ” 

Basil obeyed, and in his own room applied himself 
again to a review of his position. Strange indeed were 
the circumstances in which he found himself, but he saw 
no other course to pursue than that upon which he had 
already resolved. At noon the doctor called again, and 
his report was even less hopeful than on his previous visit. 

“I can do nothing, I fear,” he said; “the end is ap- 
proaching. You must be prepared.” 

“ Is there no hope for one? ” asked Basil. 

“For neither, so far as my judgment is to be trusted. 
It would be a satisfaction to you, perhaps, if a physician 
were called in. ” 

“I think it should be done,” said Basil, “but I am a 
stranger here, and know no one.” 

“I will comeat five o’clock, and bring a physician with 
me. Meanwhile, if your parents have any arrange- 
ments to make with respect to property, it should not be 
neglected. I am of the opinion that your father will have 
an interval of consciousness this evening, and then would 
be the proper time. In everything else you may trust 
the nurse I have sent in ; she understands the case 
thoroughly.” 

The physician’s statement verified the warning. 

“Their vital forces are spent,” he said ; “the end can- 
not be averted or arrested.” 

It was at eight o’clock that the nurse presented herself, 
and told him that his father had asked for him. 


21 


3 22 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


‘ ‘ Your mother is sleeping, ” she said ; * ‘ speak as softly 
as you can.” 

He followed her to the room and took a chair by Mr. 
Chaytor’ s bed. He had strange thoughts as he entered. 
Suppose that Mr. Chaytor, seeing him for the first time, 
should refuse to see the likeness to Newman which others 
had seen? In that case, how should he act? He was 
puzzled to answer, and, driven by circumstances into a 
position he had not sought, could but leave events to take 
their course, which they had already done independent 
of himself. But nothing of the sort happened. Mr. 
Chaytor’s eyes dwelt upon his face, and then he called 
Basil by the name of Newman, and Basil had no alter- 
native but to answer to it. The nurse sat discreetly by 
Mrs. Chaytor’s side. 

“Send that woman away,” said Mr. Chaytor. 

His words came with difficulty ; his voice was choked. 
The nurse heard the demand, and as she passed from the 
room she whispered to Basil that she would be ready out- 
side if he wanted her. For several minutes there was 
silence, a silence which Basil did not venture to break. 
Mr. Chaytor appeared to be engaged in the effort of mar- 
shalling his thoughts. 

“You have comeback in time,” he said, “to see me 
die.” 

“ I trust there is still hope,” said Basil. 

“ There is no hope,” said the sick man. “ The doctors 
spoke together under their breath, and thought I could 
not hear. They were wrong ; I heard every word they 
said. The fools forgot that a dying man’s senses are 
often preternaturally sharpened. Mine were. ‘ He will 
die at sunrise,’ they said. Very well, I shall die at . sun- 
rise. Oh, I don’t dispute them ; they know their busi- 
ness. Sunrise is some hours yet ; I have time to speak, 
and I mean to keep my wits together till I have said what 
I have got to say. What you have to do is to listen. Do. 
you hear me ? ” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


32 3 


“I hear you,” said Basil. 

“I don’t intend,” continued the dying man, “to ask 
you questions, for I know what kind of replies you would 
give. What you are, you are, and of that I have had 
bitter experience. Your mother, lying there at the point 
of death — Oh, I heard that, too, when they were putting 
their heads together — believes in you, trusts you, thinks 
you the sun, moon, and stars all rolled into one, and 
thinks me a black cloud whose only aim is to tarnish 
your brightness. Let her believe so. There was never 
any reason or any wisdom in her love ; but she is a good 
woman. To him she loves she gives all, and asks for 
nothing in return. Whom she trusts is immaculate ; she 
cannot see a spot upon him. That is how it stands, how 
it has always stood, between you and her. It is different 
with me. Ever since you became a man — heaven pardon 
me for calling you one ! — you have been corrupt and 
vicious ; and I knew it. Ever since you became a man 
you have been false to friendship, false to love ; and I 
knew it. Ever since you became a man you have had but 
one idea — yourself, your vanities, your degraded pleas- 
ures, your low and envious desires ; and I knew it. Why, 
then, should I ask you questions, knowing you would 
lie to me in your answers. For you are as glib of speech, 
Newman Chaytor, as you are cunning of mind. You 
have beeiv absent from us a long time : doubtless you 
have a good recollection of the day on which I turned 
you from my house. We became stricken down ; we be- 
came worse than poor ; we became paupers. Your 
mother wrote to you when you were on the goldfields, 
and you sent back whining letters of your misfortunes. 
Your mother believed you and pitied you ; I disbelieved 
you and despised you. At length you came home, and 
hunting for us to see whether there was another drop of 
blood you could suck from our empty veins, discovered 
that you could hope for nothing from us, and therefore 


3 2 4 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


kept aloof ; for it is a fact that until a week previous to 
your mother meeting you on Westminster Bridge, we lived 
on beggary and charity. How do I arrive at this knowl- 
edge of your movements? From intuition, from the 
bitter experiences with which you supplied me. I must 
pause a little. I will proceed in a minute or two, when I 
get back my treacherous voice. Do not poison the silence 
with your voice. I prefer not to hear it.” 

It was dreadful to hear him. The choked utterance, 
the pauses between the words, the fixed determination to 
say what was in his mind, the stern tones, produced a 
painful impression upon Basil ; but he had perforce to 
obey, and so he waited till the dying man resumed : 

“ If you had heard of my good fortune you would have 
leapt upon us like a wolf; but it did not reach your ears. 
Therefore you kept away from us, fearing, while you had 
one penny left, that we should beg a halfpenny of it. 
Your mother brought you home — not to these rooms at 
first, for we had not removed from our old quarters, but 
afterwards we came here for your pleasure. Well, for 
hers, too, perhaps,” — his eyes softened a little as he turned 
them towards the bed in which Mrs. Chaytor lay— “and 
she was happy, for the first time for many, many years, 
because you were with us. I could not come to see you ; 
it is eight months since I was able to crawl, but your 
mother gave me accounts of you, and I was not displeased 
that she was able to nurse you into strength. She has 
hastened her end through it, but that matters little to her. 
During this last week I have been thinking what I should 
do with my money, and I have allowed myself to be per- 
suaded, most likely beguiled. Look beneath my bed ; 
you will see a cashbox ; bring it forth.” 

Basil did as he was directed, and produced the cash- 
box. 

“It contains a portion of my wealth ; there are some 
shares in it which may yet be valuable. I have made no 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


325 

will, but I give you the cashbox and the contents while 
I live; they are yours— a free gift. Beneath my bed, 
between the mattresses, is a larger sum, which you may 
take possession of when I am gone ; I make no disposi- 
tion of it, and you may act as you please in regard to it. 
Take the key of the cashbox — it is hanging there, at the 
head of the bed ; and I lay this injunction upon you. 
That you do not open the box until I am dead. In this I 
must break through the rule I laid down when I began 
to speak. You will obey me? ” 

“I will obey you,” said Basil. 

“It is a solemn promise?” 

“It is a solemn promise.” 

“ There is a look in your face I have never seen there 
before. Is it possible that a change has come over you ? ” 

“I have none but kind and grateful thoughts for you.” 

“ Is it true. Can it be true ? ” 

“It is true.” Then, like a whirlwind, there rushed 
upon Basil’s mind a torrent of self-reproach. Was it right 
that he should allow the dying man to rest in his delusion ? 
Was it not incumbent upon him that he should confess, 
here and now, that he was not Newman Chaytor ? What- 
ever the consequences, was it not his duty to brave them ? 
But before he could speak a word to this effect Mr. Chaytor 
raised himself in his bed with a terrible cry ; and at that 
cry the nurse unceremoniously entered the room, and 
caught Mr. Chaytor in her arms. A little froth gathered 
about his lips, his head tossed this way and that ; then 
movement ceased ; his limbs relaxed, and the nurse laid 
him back in bed. Awe-stricken, Basil whispered : 

“Is he dead ? ” 

“No,” said the nurse ; “if any change occurs I will 
call you. Go — I can attend better to him alone.” 

“Can I not assist you? ” 

“No, you will be in my way. Hush ! Go at once; 
your mother is stirring. Be sure I will call you ; I prom- 
ise faithfully.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


3 2 6 

Basil left the room, carrying- the cashbox with him, 
which he placed under his own bed, putting the key in 
his pocket He did not seek rest; his mind was too 
perturbed. Towards midnight the doctor called in, and 
gently informed Basil that within a few hours he would 
lose both his parents. 

“ In one sense/’ he said, “apart from the grief which 
such a loss bears with it, it is a happy fitness that two old 
people, who have lived a long life in harmony with each 
other, should pass away at the same time, the allotted 
span of existence having been reached. I sympathize 
sincerely with you.” 

Basil gave him a strange look ; so completely was his 
position recognized and established that he almost doubted 
his identity. It wanted a few minutes to sunrise when 
the nurse came to the door and solemnly beckoned to 
him. He followed her in silence ; she pointed first to the 
bed in which Mr. Chaytor lay. The form thereon was 
gray and motionless. 

“He died in his sleep,” whispered the nurse ; “ not a 
sound escaped him. It was a happy, painless death.” 

Basil gazed at the still form. 

“Now you know,” he thought. “ Forgive me for the 
deception which has been forced upon me.” 

The nurse touched his arm, and directed his attention 
to Mrs. Chaytor, saying softly, “ I would not let her know 
of your father’s death.” 

“Newman, Newman, my dear boy,” murmured the 
dying woman, “put your lips to mine ; come closer 
to me, closer, closer. My last thoughts, my last prayers 
are for you. Has your father spoken to you ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ And has he given you what he promised ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“Then all is well. We shall trouble you no more, my 
darling. A life of happiness is before you. Think of us 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


327 

sometimes ; and if your father does not get well, lay us in 
the same grave. ” 

“ It shall be done. ” 

“I shall wait for you in heaven, flow happy I am — 
how happy, how happy ! I am not sorry to go now I 
have found you. I have prayed to die like this. God 
has been very good to me. He has answered my prayer. 
Kiss me, dear. God bless and guard you ! ” 

She said no more ; before the next hour struck her spirit 
was in another world. 

‘‘Remain with them,” Basil said to the nurse, “ and let 
everything be done that is proper and necessary.” 

He gave her some money, and, oppressed with thought, 
returned to his chambers. No adventure that he had met 
with in the course of his checkered life had stirred him so 
deeply as this. So strange and singular was it that he 
might have been pardoned for doubting still that it was 
true. But the cashbox, which he had drawn from beneath 
the bed, was before him ; the key was in his hand. 

After a brief space he opened the box, taking the pre- 
caution first to lock his door. Upon the top of the box 
were eight acceptances for various amounts, signed in 
different names, some in those of Mr. Chaytor, others in 
names that were strange to him. They were pinned to- 
gether, and folded in a paper upon which was written : 

“These acceptances are forgeries, committed by my 
son, Newman Chaytor. I have paid them, and saved him 
from the just punishment which should have been his. 
In this and in other ways he has ruined my career, and 
brought his mother and me to direst poverty. But although 
the money is paid and the exposure averted, the crime 
remains ; he is not cleared of it. It is a stain upon him 
forever. — Edward Chaytor. ” 

Beneath these documents was another, inscribed : 

“ The last words of Edward Chaytor, once a prosper- 
ous gentleman, but brought to shame by a guilty son.” 


328 BASIL AND ANNETTE. 

Unfolding the paper, Basil reac 1 : 


“ To my son Newman Chaytor, a man of sin, I, his 
unhappy father, address these words. Your life has been 
a life of infamy, and you, who should have been a bless- 
ing to us, have plunged us in misery. I have little hope 
of your future, but remorse may prompt you to pay heed 
to what I now say. Repent of your evil courses while 
there is time. You may live to be old, when repentance 
will be too late. If there is any wrong to be righted, 
which may be righted by money, seek it out, and let my 
money right it. If there is any atonement to be made, 
and you see a way to it — as you surely will if you try — 
let my money atone for it. If there is any villainy com- 
mitted by you which merits punishment, but which in 
some small measure may be condoned by money, let my 
money accomplish it. Do this, and you may hope for 
forgiveness. I could write much more, but I have neither 
the desire nor the power ; but if I wrote for a week you 
would not have a better understanding of my meaning. 
Signed on my death-bed. Your father, 

“Edward Chaytor. ” 

The remaining contents of the cashbox were gold and 
notes, amounting in all to a considerable sum. Basil 
counted the money, made a careful and exact record of it 
on a fair sheet of paper, replaced the papers and locked 
the box, and put it in a place of safety. 

He was not long in arriving at a decision as to what he 
should do with respect to this money. For his own needs 
he would use the barest pittance upon which he could 
live, and some part of the money he would also use in 
the prosecution of his search for Newman Chaytor and 
Annette. In this expenditure he felt himself justified, and 
he would keep a strict and faithful account of the sums he 
expended. For the rest, if anything in the career of 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


329 

Newman Chaytor came to his knowledge, and he could 
in any way carry out the behests of the man lying dead 
in the room beyond, he would do it, and thus vicariously 
make atonement for the villain who had brought sorrow 
and misery upon all with whom he came in contact. For 
the present there were duties which demanded his atten- 
tion, and Basil applied himself to the last sad offices 
towards those who had passed away. In the course of 
the week his task was accomplished. Mr. and Mrs. Chay- 
tor lay in one grave, and Basil made arrangements for a 
stone, and for a continual supply of fresh flowers over the 
grave. Then, with a stern resolve, he set himself to the 
serious work before him, and to the design which Jiad 
brought him home from the goldfields. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

The first thing he did was to remove from the house 
which had been occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Chaytor, and 
take a room in a poor locality, for which he paid four 
shillings a week. Including this sum he thought he could 
live as well as he desired upon a pound a week. He ex- 
perienced a grim satisfaction from the reflection that he 
was expending upon his own personal necessities some 
small portion of the fortune of which Newman Chaytor 
had so successfully robbed him. If the day ever arrived 
when it would be necessary to go into accounts with 
Newman Chaytor this slight expenditure would be placed 
to the villain’s credit. He had an idea of returning to his 
lodgings in Mrs. Philpott’s house, the assistance of whose 
husband he determined again to seek, but upon second 
thoughts he saw that he would be more free to act if he 
were not under the kindly surveillance of this estimable 
couple. Having established himself in his new quarters 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


330 

lie went direct to Mrs. Philpott’s residence in Lambeth, 
'['lie woman was overjoyed to see him. 

“ Why, sir, why,” she cried, as she came to the door 
fresh from the washing-tub, wiping the suds from her 
arms, ‘ ‘ this is a pleasure, Philpott will be more than glad. 
Here, children, children! Come and see an old friend; 
there never was such a favorite with them as you were, 
sir. They have been continually taking you into custody 
and locking you up, and trying and acquitting you, with- 
out a stain on your character. ” Mrs. Philpott laughed. 
“You mustn’t mind their ways ; if they didn’t think all 
the world of you they’d give you six months’ hard labor. 
It’s' the revenge they take upon people they don’t like. 
Don’t crowd round the gentleman so, you rude things ! 
Where’s your manners, I should like to know? Won’t 
you walk in, sir? I hope you’re coming back to live 
with us ; there’s your room waiting for you ; it’s never 
been occupied, and Philpott says it never shall be, unless 
you take it.” 

“ 1 am living elsewhere, Mrs. Philpott,” said Basil, 
“ but I’ve come to see your husband on business.” 

“ I’m sorry he’s hot in, sir,” said Mrs. Philpott; “ he 
won’t be home till ten o’clock to-night.” 

“ Can I see him then ; my business will not admit ot 
delay.” 

“ Certainly, sir. Philpott would get up in the middle 
of the night to serve you, and so would I. You’ll stop 
and have a bite with us, sir, I hope? ” 

“ No, thank you ; I haven’t time ; I will be here punc- 
tually at ten.” 

“ Well, sir,” said Mrs. Philpott, regretfully, “ if you 
must go ; but you’ll take a bit of supper with us ? ” 

“ I will, with pleasure. Your husband is sure to be at 
home,. I suppose ? ” 

“Yes, sir ; Philpott’s the soul of punctuality. He’s 
gone for a day in the country to see an old friend, and 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


331 

his train is due at Victoria at twenty past nine. You’re 
looking better than you did, sir.” 

‘ ‘ I am better, and in better spirits. ” 

“ Do you remember what I said, sir, about clouds with 
silver linings ? Lord, sir ! When things are at their worst 
they’re sure to mend. What men and women have got 
to do is never to give in. Oh, I’ve had my lessons, 
sir. ” 

“ So have I, Mrs. Philpott; I shall be with you at ten.” 

Patting the children on their heads, and giving them a 
penny each — he felt like a shilling, but it was not exactly 
his own money he was spending, and this small bene- 
faction was a luxury which did not properly come under 
the head of personal expenses — Basil, with pleasant nods, 
left them to their favorite occupation of taking people up 
and trying them for imaginary offences against the public 
peace. At nightfall, having an idle hour or two before 
his appointment with Mr. Philpott, an impulse which he 
made no effort to control directed his steps towards Long 
Acre, and then to Queen Street, where the woman whom 
Newman Chaytor had betrayed and deserted carried on 
her business. The workgirls from the large establish- 
ments in the vicinity of this street were coming from their 
shops, most of them in blithe spirits, being young and in 
agreeable employment. It was the holiday time of the 
day with them, and they were hurrying home, some 
doing a little sweethearting on the road which it was 
pleasant to contemplate. There were pictures not so 
pleasant ; great hulking men smoking pipes and loung- 
ing about, with “Brute” stamped on their features, and 
women as coarse, whose birth and training perhaps were 
a legitimate answer to their worse than common language 
and manners. Basil’s observations of London life during 
the last few months had supplied him with ample food 
for reflection, and he could honestly have preached a 
homily on charity which better men than he — say, for 


332 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


instance, philanthropists or statesmen with hobbies — 
might serviceably have taken to heart. 

His attention was diverted from these unfortunates by a 
startling incident. There was a sudden cry of “Fire! ” 
and the thoroughfare became instantly thronged. 

“Where is it ? — where is it ? ” “There, you fool ! Can’t 
you see it? — in Queen Street.” “ It’s a private house.” 
“No, it isn’t, it’s a shop — a milliner’s. An old house; 
it’ll burn like tinder.” “ A good job it isn’t in the middle 
of the night ; they’d have been burnt in their beds.” 

The sparks rushed up in fierce exultation. “ The next 
house is caught ! The whole street ’ll be down. Here’s 
the fire-engine ! ” 

In gallant haste the horses tore along, the brave fire- 
men, heroes one and all, standing firm and ready. Basil 
followed the crowd, and with difficulty pushed his way 
through as far as he was allowed. It was Mrs. Addison’s 
shop that was on fire, and he saw immediately that there 
was no chance of saving it. The weeping women were 
outside, wringing their hands ; among them the woman 
who had accused him, and her mother, who had cast upon 
him that ever vivid look of abhorrence and hatred. So 
quick and sudden and fierce was the fire that not a stick 
of furniture nor a yard of ribbon was saved. The women 
strove to rush into the shop, but the firemen held them 
back, and with firm kindness impelled them to a place of 
safety. Basil, edging near to them, and keeping his face 
hidden, heard what passed between them. “ We are 
ruined,” said one, despairingly. 

“ Aren’t you insured? ” inquired a bystander. 

“ Not for a penny,” was the answer. 

“ Ah, you’ll have to commence the world all over 
again.” 

“ Heaven help us ! ” was the answer. “We are worse 
than naked; we owe money.” 

“ Never mind, old woman,” shouted a tipsy man, 
“ there’s the work’us open.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


333 

“ Shut up, you brute-! ” cried an indignant female. 
“ Have you no bowels? ” 

At the words, “We are ruined,” a thrill shot through 
Basil. Here was a woman whom Newman Chaytor had 
wronged ; here was a woman to whom atonement was 
due. He knew what it was right should be done, and he 
determined to do it. He lingered near them until the 
shop lay a mouldering heap of ruins ; he heard a kind 
neighbor offer them lodging for the night ; he remarked 
the house they entered ; and then he went home to his 
own lodging of one room. There, safely concealed, was 
a sum of money amounting to three hundred pounds ; he 
took the whole of it, wrote on a sheet of paper, “In 
partial atonement of a wrong committed in the past,” and 
put the paper and the notes in an envelope, which he ad- 
dressed to Mrs. Addison. Then he went to Mrs. Philpott’s 
house. 

“You are late, sir,” said that cheerful woman; “an 
hour behind time.” 

“ I have been detained.” 

“ You’re not too late for supper, sir, at all events,” said 
Mrs. Philpott ; “I put it back for you.” 

“You must excuse me,” said Basil; “something of 
pressing importance has occurred, and I want Mr. Phil- 
pott to come out with me immediately.” 

“Quite ready, sir,” said Mr. Philpott, rising and getting 
his hat. 

Mrs. Philpott, recognizing that the business was urgent, 
did not press Basil further, although disappointment was 
in her face. 

“At another time,” said Basil, “I shall be glad to ac- 
cept of your hospitality. Come, Mr. Philpott.” 

As they walked on Basil explained that he wished Mr. 
Philpott to take up the dropped threads of the search for 
Newman Chaytor, and then he explained what he wished 
to do at the present moment. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


334 

“It is purely a confidential matter,” said Basil, “and is 
not to be spoken of in any way after the commission is 
executed. Here is the house. Some women are lodging 
here for the night whose place of business in Long Acre 
has been burnt down. You will ask for Mrs. Addison ; if 
a mother and her daughter present themselves it is the 
daughter you must address. Ask her if she is the woman 
who has been burnt out, and if she answers in the affirma- 
tive give her this envelope, and come away at once. If 
she seeks to detain you and asks questions, do not answer 
them. I will wait for you on the opposite side.” 

He watched Mr. Philpott execute the commission, being 
right in his conjecture that the women would be too 
excited to seek their beds until late in the night. The 
woman with whom he had the interview appeared at the* 
door, and received the envelope ; after which Mr. Philpott 
joined him, as directed.. At the corner of the street Basil 
and his companion paused and looked back at the house. 
In a few moments the woman who had answered Mr. 
Philpott’s summons came quickly to the street door and 
looked eagerly up and down ; Basil and Mr. Philpott were 
standing in the shadow, and could not be seen. The 
light of a street lamp assisted Basil to see her face ; it 
was radiant with joy. 

“A good night’s work,” said Basil, taking Mr. Philpott s 
arm and walking away. “I will call upon you to-mor- 
row. Good-night.” 

Mr. Philpott left him and proceeded homewards, as did 
Basil. He did not know that a man was following him 
with eager curiosity. He put his latchkey in the street 
door of his lodging, and as he did so the man touched his 
arm. Basil turned. 

“What, Old Corrie ! ” he cried, in a voice of delight. 

“No other,” said Old Corrie, calmly. “It is Master 
Basil. I thought I wasn’t mistaken. Well, well ! This 
is a meeting to be thankful for. I’m in luck.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


355 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

“Come in, come in,” Said Basil, clutching old Corrie 
by the arm, as though he feared to lose him, and drag- 
ging him into the house ; “ this is indeed a meeting to be 
thankful for. It is I who am in luck.” 

He regarded it as an omen of good fortune. If old 
Corrie were thus unexpectedly found, why not Newman 
Chaytor? And, besides, here was a trusty friend upon 
whom he could rely — here was a man whose evidence 
would go far to establish his identity, to restore his good 
name, to give the lie to his traducers. He looked upon 
this meeting as the opening of a brighter chapter in his 
strange career, and with this cheering thought in his 
mind he ascended the stairs to his one room at the top of 
the house, still keeping tight hold of Corrie, who accom- 
panied him, willingly enough, in a kind of amazed 
silence. 

“I must find a candle,” said Basil, pushing old Corrie 
into the room before him. “You won’t run away, 
Corrie ? ” 

“ No fear, Master Basil,” replied Corrie. “Iam not in a 
run-away humor. Shouldn’t wonder, supposing I get 
encouragement, if I develop the qualities of a leech.” 

“I promise you encouragement enough,” said Basil, 
with a blithe laugh. His spirits were almost joyous ; 
youth seemed to be returning to him. 

“I’ll wait for proof,” observed Corrie sententiously. 
“ Friends are none so plentiful in this hard world.” 

“True, true,” assented Basil, groping about for the 
candle. “ You could swear to me in the dark, eh? ” 

“ If needful . v 


BASIL AND ANNETTE .. 


^36 

“That’s more than some would do in the full light of 
the blessed sun. I could sing for joy.” 

“ Hold your hand, Master Basil ; let us exchange a few 
more words in darkness. I am speculating whether you 
are changed.’’ 

“ What do you think, Corrie ? ” 

“ I think not, but what man can be sure? I have been 
sore beset since we last talked together.” 

“We have been rowing in the same boat, then.” 

“You have met with misfortunes, too? Have they 
soured you ? ” 

“They have brought sorrow and doubt in their train, 
but there is sweetness still in the world. This meeting is 
a proof. ” 

“You live high up, and the house is the house of poor 
people. Birds of a feather flock together. Perhaps, after 
all, I had best go away.” 

‘ ‘ If you attempt it I shall assault you. Corrie, old 
friend, you have dropped upon me like a messenger from 
heaven. Here is the candle at last. Now we can have 
a good look at each other.” 

They gazed in silence for a few moments, and Basil 
was grieved to see old Corrie in rags. Beneath the bluff 
honesty of his face there were undeniable marks of priva- 
tion, but, despite these signs, there was a gleam of humor 
still in his eyes. 

“Well, Master Basil ? ” said he presently. 

“I am truly sorry, dear old friend,” said Basil holding 
out his hand. “You have had some hard knocks.” 

“You may say that. It has been a case of battledore and 
shuttlecock — the battledore a stone one and the shuttle- 
cock a poor bit of ironbark, with such a mockery of 
feathers in it that the moment it was knocked up it fell 
down like a lump of lead. If I puzzle you, Master Basil, 
you puzzle me. There is something in you I can’t exactly 
read. Your clothes are not what I should like to see you 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


337 

wear, though they are the clothes of a prince compared 
with mine. This room is the room of a man pretty low 
down in the world, ” and here old Corrie added with a laueh 
“the higher up you live the lower down you are — and 
yet you have the air of a man who is not hard up.” 

“Regarding me,” said Basil, “as a bundle of con- 
tradictions, you are nearer the mark than you could suppose 
yourself to be. But surely I am forgetting my manners 
and my duties as a host.” He opened a cupboard, and 
drew therefrom bread, butter, cheese, and a bottle of ale, 
which he uncorked. Plates, glasses, and knives were on 
the table in a trice. “ Fall to, Corrie.” 

“You can spare it, Master Basil ? ” 

“I can spare it, Corrie. You share with me from this 
time forth. Do you live near here ? ” 

“ Very near, ” replied old Corrie, pointing to the window. 
“ The sky is my roof.” 

“ It has been mine. We’ll house you better. I drink 
love and friendship to a dear old friend.” 

They clinked glasses, and Corrie ate like a famished 
man. The meal being done he said : 

“ I’ve been on my beam-ends in Australia, but starving 
in this country is a very different pair of shoes. Its a 
near thing here between want and death — so near that 
they touch often and join hands in grim partnership. 
I've seen it done, and a dead woman before me. Now, 
in Australia, unless it comes to being lost in the bush — - 
where it’s no man’s fault but the explorer’s — I never heard 
of a case. There’s stone-breaking at all events to tide 
over the evil day. I’ve had more than one turn at it, and 
been thankful to get it to do, as every honest and willing 
man would be. Different in England, Master Basil, 
where they’ve brought civilization down to a fine point. 
Did you take notice how I ate my supper? More like a 
wild beast than a man — and now, with a full stomach, I 
am thoroughly ashamed of myself. Not that I am loth 

22 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


338 

to accept your hospitality ; it’s the need of it that riles me. 
That’s where the shoe really pinches. ” 

“I can sympathize with you, Corrie. By the way, I 
am in your debt.” 

‘ ‘ How so, Master Basil ? ” 

“Over the water yonder I borrowed a mare of you, 
and managed to lose it. You remember. I wanted to 
get from Bidaud s plantation to Gum Flat Township — a 
gruesome journey it turned out to be — and you lent me 
your mare. When I returned and reported the matter to 
you my pockets were empty, and not a word of reproach 
did you fling at me. I couldn’t pay the debt then — I 
can now.” 

“ Hold hard a bit, Master Basil ; let me turn the thing 
over in my mind.” Basil humored him, and there was 
a brief silence. Then Corrie said, “ It is a simple justice 
that the mare should be paid for, if you can afford it.” 

“I can afford it. . Why, if I had my own this night I 
should be worth sixty thousand pounds.” 

“ Some one has cheated you, Master Basil ? ” 

“More than cheated me; has done me the foulest 
wrong. You shall hear all by-and-by. But I still have 
money I can call my own. The robber, unknown to 
himself, is making restitution by driblets. Here you are, 
Corrie.” He had counted out thirty pounds, which he 
now pushed over to Corrie across the table. Corrie count- 
ed it, but did not take it up. 

“If this is for the mare, Master Basil, it’s too much.” 

“Too little, you mean.” 

“Too much by twenty pounds. The old mare mighi 
have fetched a ten-pound note in a sale-yard, and more 
likely than not would have been knocked down for a 
fiver. So I’ll take ten if you don’t mind, Master Basil, and 
we’ll cry quits on that account. I wouldn’t take that if my 
pockets weren’t empty.” 

No persuasion on Basil’s part could induce old Corrie 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


339 

to accept more than the ten pounds, and the young man 
was fain to yield. 

“You were quite in earnest,” said old Corrie, “when 
you offered to give me a shakedown for the night ? ” 

“I’ve a mind to be angry with you,” responded Basil, 
“for asking the question. Let us settle matters between 
us once and for all, Corrie. You had a good opinion of 
me once.” 

“I had, Master Basil, and would have done much to 
serve you. ” 

“\ou did do much — more than I had any right to 
expect, more than any other man did.” 

“Not more than one other man would have done,” 
said old Corrie, eyeing Basil attentively, “if he had 
lived. ” 

“You refer to Anthony Bidaud? ” 

“I do. I haven’t forgotten him, nor little lady, nor 
that skunk of an uncle of hers. ” 

“We have much to talk over, you and I,” said Basil, 
restraining the impulse to speak immediately of Annette, 
“but what is between us must first be settled and clearly 
understood. You are right about Anthony Bidaud. He 
would have been the first, but he died before his intentions 
could be fulfilled. Next to him you stand, and surely 
you would not have been the friend you were to me if 
you had not esteemed and trusted me.” 

“That goes without saying.” 

“As I was then, Corrie,” continued Basil, earnestly, 
“so I am now. I have passed through the fire, and 
suffering may still await me, but I am, and hope to remain, 
unchanged. Let us take up the thread of friendship 
where it was broken off, on the goldfields when Newman 
Chaytor and I were working together, and when you en- 
deavored to persuade me to come home with you. Ah, 
what might I have been spared had I accepted your 
generous offer ? Corrie, if ever there was a time in my 


340 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


life when I most needed a true friend, it is now. There 
is vital work before me to do, and you, and you alone, 
can help me. By heavens, if you desert me I doubt 
whether I should be able to prove that I am I ! Come, 
old friend, say that you believe in me as of old, and that 
you will stick by me as you would have done in the old 
Australian days.” 

“Say no more,” said old Corrie. “I’ll worry you no 
longer ; it’s scarcely fair-play, for, Master Basil, I never 
doubted you in reality ; but poverty is proud and suspi- 
cious, and often behaves like an ill-trained watch-dog. 
And, besides, there are times in some men’s lives when 
kindness is so rare and unexpected that it throws them off 
their balance. I don’t pretend to understand half you have 
said about yourself, but I’ll wait till you explain, and then 
if I can help you in any way, here I am, ready. I am 
wondering whether something that happened to me would 
be of interest to you — but, no, it is a foolish thought. 
Doubtless you have seen her, and now I come to think 
of it, perhaps there lies part of your trouble.” 

“Seen whom?” asked Basil. 

“ Little lady. ” 

“ No,” cried Basil, in great excitement, “I have not seen 
her, and I would give the best years of my life to find her. 
You know where she is ; you can take me to her ! ” 

“Steady, lad, steady. I haven’t seen her, and can’t 
take you to her, but there’s a signpost that may show the 
way. There is no certainty in it ; it’s just a chance. 
What do you say if I lead up to it ? It’s late in the night, 
but I’ve no inclination to close my eyes, knowing I 
shouldn’t sleep a wink, I’m that stirred up.” 

“Neither could I sleep, Corrie. Let us sit and talk and 
smoke ; here’s a spare pipe and tobacco — and you shall 
tell me in your own way.” 

Corrie nodded, and filled his pipe, and lit it. Basil did 
the same, and waited in anxious expectancy, while Corrie 
puffed and contemplated the ceiling meditatively. 


BASIL AMD ANNETTE . 


341 


“ In my own way, Master Basil ? ” 

“In your own way, Corrie.” 

“A roundabout way, but there's plenty of time before 
daybreak, and then a couple of hours’ sleep will make us 
both fit. Old bushmen like ourselves won’t miss one 
night’s rest. ” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

There was distinct tenderness in old Corrie’s face as he 
watched the curling wreaths of smoke. 

“I don’t lay claim to being a poet,” he said ; “I leave 
that to my betters ; but they almost seem to me to belong 
to poetry, these rings of smoke that come and go. They 
bring back old times, and I could fancy we were in the 
bush, sitting by the camp fire before turning in for the 
night, spinning yarns, and as happy as blackbirds in 
spring. There is no life like it, Master Basil, say what 
they will of the pleasures of the city. Pleasures ! Good 
Lord ! To think of the lives some lead here, and then to 
speak of pleasures ! I’m not going to preach, however ; 
the ship’s been battered about, but it has reached port ” — 
he touched Basil’s hand gratefully — “ and here sits the 
old bushman recalling old times. I sha’n’t dwell upon 
them because I know it would be trying your patience. 
I’d like you to give me a little information about yourself 
before I go on. ” 

“Ask whatever you wish, Corrie.” 

“ I left you on the goldfields, mates with Newman 
Chaytor, of whom, as you know, I did not have a good 
opinion.” 

“However badly you thought of him, you were 
justified. ” 

“You found him out at last?” 

“I found him out at last.” 


342 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


“ Did it take you long ? ” 

“Years.’’ 

“Sorry to hear it. Did you get to a proper knowledge 
of him suddenly or gradually ? ” 

‘ ‘ Suddenly. ” 

“ And all the time he was practising on you ? ” 

“He was.” 

“ Master Basil,” said old Corrie, gravely, “you were 
never fit to battle with human nature ; you never under- 
stood the worst half of it. ” 

“Perhaps not, Corrie, but I understand it now. New- 
man Chaytor is a black-hearted villain. ” 

“I am not surprised to hear you say so ; I had my sus- 
picions of him from the first. Unreasonable, I grant you, 
no grounds to go upon ; but there they were, and I am 
sorry, for your sake, that they proved true. Where’s my 
gentleman now ? ” 

“In Europe, somewhere. I am hunting for him; it 
will be a dark day for the traitor when I come face to face 
with him.” 

Old Corrie looked at Basil keenly from under his eye- 
brows. “Do you want my assistance here?” he asked. 

“I do. You must be with me, by my side, when he 
and I are together. With your aid I succeed ; without it 
I fail. Do you require an incentive? I will give you 
two.” 

“I require none ; it is sufficient that you want me and 
that you believe I can be of assistance to you.” 

“Still I will give you the two incentives. One is, that 
it is not alone Newman Chaytor I am fighting : linked 
with him, if I have not been misinformed, is an associate 
worthy of him — Gilbert Bidaud.” 

“ Little lady’s uncle. A precious pair, he and Chaytor. 
If I needed spurring, this would do it.” 

“The other is, that I am not only fighting to defeat 
these scoundrels, but to save your little lady, Annette.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


343 

“Enough, enough,” said old Corrie ; “I'll bide my time 
to learn. Meanwhile, I pledge myself to you. Why, 
Master Basil, to give those two men their deserts, and to 
serve you and little lady, I’d go through fire and water. 
I will unfold my budget first, and will make it as short as 
I can. When I left you on the goldfields, I did what many 
another foolish fellow has done, went to Sydney and spent 
a week or two there on the spree. What kind of pleasure 
is to be got out of that operation heaven only knows, but 
it is supposed to be the correct thing for a brainless, lucky 
gold-digger to do, and it leaves him probably with empty 
pockets, and certainly with a headache and heartache that 
ought to teach him to be wiser in future. There was no 
excuse for me : I wasn’t a young man, and wasn’t fond 
of drink, and when at the end of a fortnight I came to my 
sober senses, I said, ‘Corrie, you’re an old fool,’ and I 
never said a truer thing. That fortnight cost me a hun- 
dred pounds, I reckon. I treated every man whose face 
1 recognized, and a good many that were strange to me, 
and I think it was the face of a gentleman I met in Pitt 
Street who looked at me in a kind of wonder, that pulled 
me up short. Somehow or other he reminded me of you, 
Master Basil, though he wasn’t a bit like you : but he was 
a gentleman, and you are a gentleman, and the thought 
ran into my head like a flash of fire, ‘What would Master 
Basil think of me if he saw me now ?’ It staggered me, 
and I felt as if I was behaving like a traitor to you to so 
forget myself. You had given me your friendship, and I 
was showing that I was unworthy of it. I made my way 
back to the hotel I was staying at, and plunged my head 
into a bucket of water, and kept it there until I had washed 
away the fumes of half the cursed liquor I had poured 
down my throat. Then I went to my bedroom, locked 
the door, threw myself on the bed, and slept myself sober, 
‘Never again, Corrie, old boy, ’ I said, ‘never again. ’ And 
I never did again, although I did some foolish things 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


344 

afterwards that were quite as unwise though less disgrace- 
ful. I took ship home and landed at St. Katherine’s Docks 
with four thousand pounds in my pocket. Yes, Master 
Basil, I had made that much and more on the goldfields, 
and it ought to have lasted me my life. You shall hear 
how long it did last me. As a matter of course, I was 
regularly knocked over when I walked through London 
streets. The crowds of people, the gay shops, the cabs 
and ’busses, and carriages, the hurly-burly, the great build- 
ings, almost took my breath away. I looked back at my 
old life in the woods, swinging my axe, felling trees, and 
splitting slabs, with my laughing jackass on a branch near 
me, and the hum of nature all around me, and I hardly 
knew whether I was awake or dreaming. Was I happy 
in the London streets ? I can’t say ; I was certainly be- 
wildered, and that, mayhap, prevented me from thinking 
of things in a sensible way. I was looking in a shop 
window, speculating whether I oughtn’t to buy some of 
the bright ties for sale there, when a voice at my elbow 
said, ( Good-day, mate.’ ‘ Good-day, mate,’ said I, though 
the man was a stranger to me, at least I thought so at the 
moment, but he soon unsettled my thought. ‘ Where have 
I met you, mate ? ’ said he. ‘ In what part of the world ? ’ 
‘On the goldfields, perhaps,’ said I, like an innocent 
pigeon. ‘ Most likely, ’he said, ‘ on the goldfields. Your 
face strikes me as familiar, but I don’t remember your 
name.’ ‘My name is Corrie,’ said I ; ‘OldCorrie I used 
to be called.’ ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head; I don’t 
remember it. I’ve seen you on the goldfields, that’s all, 
and it’s only because I never forget a face that I took the 
liberty of speaking to you. I ask your pardon.’ ‘No 
offence, mate,’ I said, and I shook the hand he held out 
before he left me. Now, Master Basil, if that man had said, 
when I told him my name, that we were old acquaintances, 
I should have been suspicious of him, but his honest admis- 
sion (it seemed honest) that he only recognized my face 


BASIL AND ^ANNETTE. 


345 

because he’d seen it once or twice on the goldfields — which 
would have been the most natural thing in the world — made 
me look upon him with favor, and as he walked away I 
gazed after him with a feeling of regret that he should leave 
me so quickly. He may have gone a dozen yards when he 
looked back over his shoulder, and seeing me staring after 
him, turned with a smile, and joined me again. ‘It looks 
churlish scudding off so unceremoniously,’ said he, ‘when 
I might by chance be of service to you. When did you 
arrive ? ’ ‘I landed this morning/ I said, and I men- 
tioned the name of the ship. ‘ Have you friends in Lon- 
don ?' he asked. ‘No,’ said I, ‘lam a stranger here.’ 
* Then you haven't taken lodgings yet,’ said he. ‘No,’ 
I answered, ‘ and to tell you the truth I am puzzled where to 
go.’ He offered to advise me, and I gladly availed my- 
self of the offer. ‘Come and have a chop with me first,’ 
said he, and we went to an eating-house all gilt and glass — 
I found out afterwards that the street we were in was 
Cheapside — and had a chop and some beer. He threw 
half-a sovereign to the waiter, but I objected to it, saying 
I would pay. He insisted, saying he had invited me ; but 
I insisted too, saying I had plenty of money, and would 
take it as a favor if he would let me have my way. The 
friendly wrangle ended in each of us paying his own score, 
and then, as though we had known each other all our 
lives, we went out together to a quiet hotel, in a narrow 
street in the Strand, down by the river, where I engaged a 
bedroom. I’ll cut a long story short, Master Basil, so far 
as my new friend goes, by telling you how it ended with 
me and him. He was so clever, and I was so simple, 
that he wormed himself completely into my confidence, 
and I thought myself lucky in having made such a friend. 
He told me all about himself, and I told him all about 
myself ; it was a regular case of Siamese twins : we were 
never apart. One day he spoke of speculation, and of 
doubling one’s money in a week, and doubling it again 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


346 

when the opportunity offered, which wasn’t too often. 
‘Of your four thousand pounds you make eight/ said 
he, ‘ of your eight thousand you make sixteen, and if you 
like to stop, why there you are, you know/ Yes, there I 
was, and no mistake. The opportunity that presented it- 
self to my confidential friend was something in my way 
— a quartz reef on the Avoca, to be formed into a com- 
pany. He showed me figures which I couldn’t dispute, 
and didn’t wish to dispute. The truth is, Master Basil, he 
had dazzled me. Sixteen thousand pounds was certainly 
better than four, and to be content with one when you 
had only to put your name on a piece of paper to 
secure the other was the act of a simpleton. The up- 
shot of it was that I went into the company and signed 
away the whole of my money with the exception of a 
hundred pounds, and very soon found out that I had 
signed it away forever and a day. Good-bye my three 
thousand nine hundred pounds, and good-bye to my dear 
friend who had tickled me into his web and made mince- 
meat of me. I never saw anything of either money or 
friend again.” 

Old Corrie paused to load his pipe, which gave Basil 
time to remark — 

“You said just now that I knew nothing of the worst 
side of human nature, How about yourself, Corrie ? ” 

“ It was my one mistake, Master Basil,” replied Corrie, 
composedly. “There’s no excuse for me; I was an old 
fool. Let me have four thousand pounds again, and see 
if I’m bit a second time. Now, being stranded with about 
enough to keep a fellow but little more than a year, what 
was I to do ? If I had been the wise man I’m trying to 
make myself out to be, I should have taken passage to 
Australia, and taken up my old life there. But more than 
one thing held me back, and kept me here. First, there 
was a foolish pride ; to retreat was to confess myself 
beaten. Second, there was the chance of meeting with 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


347 

the friend who had diddled me ; it was about as strong as 
one thread of a spider’s web, but I dangled it before me. 
Third, I had never known what it was to be without a 
crust of bread, and therefore had no fears on that score. 
Another thing perhaps, which only just now occurs to 
me, kept me in this country. When I was a youngster 
there was a fatalist among my acquaintance. He was the 
only thoroughly happy man I have ever known. Noth- 
ing worried or disturbed him ; he was a poor man, and 
he never grumbled at being poor ; he met with misfor- 
tunes, and he accepted them smilingly, and never strug- 
gled against them ; if he had broken his leg, and it had to 
be amputated, he wouldn’t have winced during the oper- 
ation. He had what he called a philosophical theory, and 
he explained it to me. ‘Nothing that anyone can do,’ 
he said, ‘ will prevent anything occurring. Everything 
that is going to happen is set down beforehand, and an 
army, ten millions strong couldn’t stop a straw from 
blowing a certain way if fate ordained that it was to 
blow that way. You can’t prevent yourself from being 
imposed upon, from being poor, from being rich, from 
being sick, from being healthy, from living till you’re 
a hundred, from dying when you’re twenty, from having 
a wife and blooming family, from living alone in a garret. 
Therefore,’ said he, ‘ it’s of no use bothering about things. 
Do as I do— take ’em easy.’ ‘But how,’ I said once to 
him, ‘ if I’ve got a different temper from yours, and worry 
myself to death about trifles ? ’ ‘ Then you are much to 

be pitied,’ said he, ‘ and I shall not trouble myself about 
you.’ I pressed him, though, a little. ‘ If a man is 
good?’ I asked. ‘He is fated to be good,’ he answered, 
"if he is a murderer?’ I asked. ‘He is fated to be a 
murderer,’ he answered. ‘If he is born to be hanged, 
hanged he will be, as sure as there’s a sun above us.’ 
Well now, Master Basil, perhaps it was fated that I should 
remain in England in order to meet with a certain adven- 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


343 

ture which I will tell you of presently, and afterwards to 
meet you here in London to-night to assist you to a fated 
end.” 

“It is a hateful theory,” said Basil. “Were it true, 
vice would be as meritorious as virtue, and monsters of 
iniquity would rank side by side with angels of goodness. 
Goon with your story, Corrie, and put fatalism aside.” 

“So be it. Anyway, there I was, as my friend said, 
with a hundred pounds in my pocket instead of sixteen 
thousand. I wasn’t quite devoid of prudence ; I knew 
that a hundred pounds wouldn’t last very long, and that 
it would be as well if I could hit upon some plan to earn a 
livelihood. It was the hop-picking season. “I’ll do a 
little hopping,” said I and off I set towards the heart of 
Kent for an autumn tour, seasoned with so many or so 
few shillings a day. On the second night of my tramp I 
missed my way. I was in a woody country, with the 
usual puzzling tracks and fences. The night was fine, 
but very dark. Camping out in England is a very different 
thing from camping out in Australia, and I didn’t intend 
to camp out here if I could help it. But I was tired, and 
I squatted myself on the grass which grew on a hill side, 
and thought I’ll rest an hour, and then stumble onwards 
on the chance of reaching a village where I could get a 
night’s lodging. I was very comfortable ; my legs hung 
down, there was a rest for my back, and without any in- 
tention of doing so, I fell asleep. I was awakened by 
something alive and warm quite close to me ; I could not 
see what it was, because when I opened my eyes I found 
that the night, from being dark, had got black. There 
was not a star visible — everything was black, above, be- 
low, around. But what was the object close to me ? I 
put out my hand and felt flesh covered with hair. * A 
dog,’ thought I ; but passing my hand along the body I 
dismissed the dog idea, in consequence of the size of the 
animal. It was not high enough nor smooth enough for 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


349 

a horse. A donkey, perhaps ; but if a donkey, why was 
it muzzled? The creature uttered no sound while my 
hand was upon it, but when I took my hand away to get 
a match — the only means at my command to obtain a 
view of my strange companion — it put its head upon my 
arm, and then a foot, just as though it wanted to pull me 
along in some particular direction — and then I heard a 
growl. It made me start, though it was not a threatening 
growl, and I wondered what sort of animal this could be 
that had attached itself to me at such a time and in such 
a place. The next sound I heard was the clank of a chain. 
I should have taken to my heels if I had not been de- 
terred by the thought that it might be safer to keep still, 
so I softly took out my match-box, and struck a light — 
and there, with only a few inches between our faces, was 
a great brown bear. I was startled, but I soon got over 
my fears. I struck half a dozen matches, one after the 
other, to get a good look at my new mate, and with the 
lighting of each fresh match I became more assured. I 
took its paw in my hand, and found that its claws had 
been pared down ; it opened its mouth, and there was 
scarcely a tooth in it ; I happened to hold up my arm, 
with the lighted match in my hand, and the bear immedi- 
ately stood on its hind legs and pawed the air. I jumped 
immediately at the right conclusion. The creature was a 
harmless performing bear, and it had either escaped from 
its master, or the man was not far off, and it wished to 
lead me to him. I made an experiment. I rose, picked 
up the end of the chain, and cried “ March ! ” March the 
bear did, and I after it, for about a mile, and then it lay 
down by something on the road, and moaned. I declare, 
Master Basil, there was a human sound in that moan, 
and I knelt by its side and took a man’s head on my knee. 
He was a foreigner, but could speak fairly good English, 
and he told me that he had met with an accident, having 
slipped on his ankle, and could not walk, ‘ Bruno went 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


350 

for assistance/ said Brunos master. ‘Good Bruno ! 
Good Bruno ! ’ The kind voice of the man attracted 
me ; the affection between bear and master attracted 
me ; and I asked what I could do, saying the country 
was strange to me, and I did not know my way. ‘ But 
I know/ said the man ; ‘there is a village two miles 
off. Help me to get on Bruno’s back, and we will go 
there, if you will be so good as to keep with me.’ 
I said I would keep with him, partly because I wanted 
a bed to sleep in myself, and partly because I should 
be glad to be of service to him. With some difficulty 
I got him on Bruno’s back — the man was in pain, but 
he bore it well — and the three of us trudged through 
the dark roads of the village, the man with his head 
on my shoulder to keep his balance. It wasn’t easy to 
get a lodging ; every house was shut, and then there 
was the bear, that nobody cared to take in, not believing 
it was a harmless creature. However, we managed it at 
last ; Bruno was fastened up in an empty stable, and I 
helped its master to a room where there were a couple of 
straw beds. His ankle was badly sprained, and the next 
morning it was very little better. He managed to limp 
out, and the pair of us, leading the bear, trudged to a 
common to where a village fair was being held, and there 
Bruno’s master began to put the bear through its perform- 
ances. Pain compelled him to stop, and he asked me to 
take his place, instructing me what words and gestures to 
use to make the patient creature do this or that. I got 
along so well that I was quite proud of myself, and the 
comicality of my suddenly becoming a showman never 
struck me till the evening, when the day’s work was done. 
‘You’ve come to something, Corrie,’ said I, and I shook 
with laughter. After tea the man counted up the takings, 
which amounted to close on ten shillings, and divided 
them into three parts. ‘One for Bruno,’ said he, ‘one for 
me, one for you.’ He pointed to my share, and I took it 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


351 

and pocketed it, as though I had been in the business all 
my life. Again, Master Basil, I’m going to cut a long 
story short. I could talk all night about my adventures 
with Bruno and its master, but I must come to the pith of 
my story. Take it, then, that the three of us travelled 
about for nearly twelve months, just managing to pick 
up a living, that my foreign mate fell sick and had to go 
into a hospital, that he died there, and that at his death I 
found myself with Bruno on my hands, established as a 
regular showman. I accepted the position ; I could do 
nothing else ; I couldn’t run away from the bear, because 
I felt I should in some way be held answerable to the law 
for desertion ; we belonged to each other, and it wasn’t at 
my option to dissolve the partnership. My little stock 
of money was diminished by this time, in consequence of 
my mate’s illness and the expenses of his funeral, and I 
knew that Bruno’s antics would always earn me a few 
shillings a week. So there we were, Bruno and I, going 
about the country with never a word or growl of dis- 
agreement between us till we came to a fashionable sea- 
side place called Bournemouth. I had gone through the 
performances, and Bruno and I were walking from street to 
street looking for another pitch when I was struck almost 
dumb with amazement at a sound that reached my ears. It 
was the voice of a bird speaking some words in aloud key 
and the words were — what do you think, Master Basil ? ” 
“I can’t imagine, Corrie,” replied Basil. 

“The words were, ‘ Little lady, little lady! Basil and 
Annette ! Basil, Basil, Basil— dear Basil ! ’ ” 

“Corrie,” cried Basil, in a voice of wonder and joy, 
“you are not deceiving me 1 ” 

“No, Master Basil, I am telling you the plain truth. 
You may imagine by your own feelings the effect those 
words had upon me. What bird but the magpie I 
had trained and taught for little lady could, have uttered 
them ? And after all these years, too 1 I could scarcely 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


352 

believe my ears, but there was the bird, piping away at 
a window — I turned and saw it in a cage — calling to me, 
in a manner of speaking, to come and say how do you 
do? I went straight up to the house and knocked at the 
door. The woman who opened it started back at sight of 
the bear. ‘It won't hurt you, ma’am/ I said, ‘there’s not 
a bit of vice in it. I’ve come to ask you something about 
a bird you’ve got. It’s an old friend of mini}£ / and I 
trained it for a young lady in Australia, and taught it some 
of the things it says. ’ ‘ Sure enough^ said the woman, 

keeping as far away from Bruno as she could, ‘the bird’s 
an Australian bird, and the young lady it belongs to was 
born in Australia. Emily’s not at home now — ’ ‘Not 
Emily, ma’am, begging your pardon,’ I said, interrupt- 
ing her; ‘Miss Annette’s the young lady I mean. Her 
father’s name was Bidaud, and Basil, one of the names I 
taught the magpie to speak, was a dear friend of hers and 
mine.’ ‘Oh yes,’ said the woman, ‘I know all about 
that. My daughter Emily is Miss Bidaud’s maid, and she 
is taking care of the bird for her mistress for a little while. 
Emily’s home for a holiday, but she's gone to see some 
friends in London, and won’t be back till the day after to- 
morrow. Can I do anything for you ? ’ ‘You can tell me, if 
you please,’ said I, ‘ where Miss Annette is. I’m sure she’ll 
be glad to see me.’ My idea was Master Basil, to see little 
lady and ask her if she had any news of you, though I 
wanted, too, to see her for her own sake. Well, all at once 
the woman grew suspicious of me, and instead of speaking 
civil she spoke snappish. ‘ No, ’ she said, ‘ I shan’t tell you 
anything about Miss Bidaud. You’re a showman travelling 
about with a big, nasty bear, and likely as not you’re up 
to no good.’ I didn’t fire up ; the woman had fair reason 
on her side. ‘I’m a respectable man, ma’am,’ I said, 
‘and it’s only by accident I came into company with 
Bruno. My name’s Corrie, and Miss Annette would 
thank you for telling me where she is.’ But she wouldn’t, 


BASIL AMD ANNETTE. 


353 

Master Basil ; all that I could get out of her was that I 
might come and see Emily the day after to-morrow, and 
her daughter could then do as she liked about telling me 
what I wanted to know. I went away with the determin- 
ation to come back and have a talk with little lady’s maid, 
but things don’t always turn out as we want them to do. 
Very seldom indeed. That night there was a great hub- 
bub in the place I was stopping at. Bruno had broke 
loose and gone, goodness knows where, and all sorts of 
stupid stories got about that the bear was mad and was 
biting everybody it met. I had to go in search of the 
creature, and the police kept me in sight. A pretty dance 
Bruno led me. I was hunting for it three days and nights, 
and when I found it at last it was in a sorry plight. I 
shall never forget that evening, Master Basil. I don’t 
know the rights of the story, but I was certain that Bruno 
had been set upon by dogs and men — it had marks of 
fresh wounds upon its body — and been hunted from place 
to place. When I caught sight of the bear it was lying 
by the side of a little pool, and at a little distance were 
some twenty men and boys pelting it with stones. I 
scattered them right and left, and knelt by Bruno’s side. 
The poor beast tried to raise its head, but couldn’t, and I 
got some water from the pool, which was all mudded 
with the stone throwing, and bathed its mouth. It thank- 
ed me with its eyes — it did, Master Basil — and did its best 
to lick my hand. Its chest went up and down like bil- 
lows of the sea, and once it gave a great sob as if its 
heart was broke. After that it got quieter, but it couid 
neither eat nor drink. A policeman came up and told me 
to move on. ‘Come, Bruno,’ I said, ‘march, my man. 
The law’s got its eyes on you.’ The creature actually 
managed to stand, and, more than that, got up on its hind 
legs as it did when it was performing. It pawed the air 
a little, and looked at me for orders, and then fell down 
all of aheap. ‘Come,’ said the policeman, ‘you must 

23 


BASIL AMD ANNETTE. 


354 

move on, the pair of you/ ‘Not possible, the pair of us,’ 
said I, sorrowfully. ‘ Try if your truncheon can bring -it to 
life/ Bruno dead was much more difficult to manage 
than Bruno alive. I had to pay money to get rid of its 
body, and then somebody summoned me for a scratch or 
a bite Bruno had given him, he said, and I had to pay 
money for that. All this took me some time, and I had 
very little money left at the end of it. I hadn’t the heart 
to go back to Bournemouth to get little lady’s address. 
What should I do with it when I got it? Go to her and 
beg ? No, I was too proud for that. Most likely she was 
with her uncle, Mr. Gilbert Bidaud, the gentleman who 
wouldn’t respect a dead brother’s word, and I knew what 
I might expect from him. So I gave up the idea, and 
came to London — came here to starve, Master Basil, for 
I could get no work to do, and have gone through more 
than I care to tell of. If I hadn’t met you to-night I 
should have wandered about the streets, as I’ve done for 
many and many a night already; but I’ll not dwell upon 
it. I’ve told my story as straight as I could.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

“ It is a strange story, ” said Basil, “ but less strange than 
the story I have to relate. We have both experienced the 
pangs of hunger and solitude, with wealth and luxury all 
around us. What chiefly interests me is your adventure 
in Bournemouth. Emily, you said, is the name of An- 
nette’s maid ? ” 

“So her mother said.” 

“And the mother’s name? ’* 

“I ascertained that' — Crawford.” 

“ Do you know the name of the street in which she 
lives ? ” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


355 


“ Lomax Road. I put it down on paper.” 

“ If we were in Bournemouth, you could take me to the 
house ? ” 

“Straight . v 

“We will go there to-morrow ; there will be little sleep 
for us to-night, Corrie. As regards Annette, do you draw 
any conclusion about her character — for the child and the 
woman are frequently at odds with one another — from the 
incident of the bird?” 

“Ido, Master Basil. I draw the sign of constancy. 
None but a constant nature would have kept the bird so 
long, would have valued it so long, would have taught 
it new words.” 

“New words ! ” 

“Yes, Master Basil. If it said ‘dear Basil 'once, it said 
it twenty times, while the woman and I were talking. 
When I gave the bird to little lady it couldn't say ‘ dear,’ 
so she must have taught the lesson with her own pretty 
lips. A straw will tell which way the wind blows.” 

“Thank you, Corrie. When you have heard me out 
you will understand what all this means to me.” 

The recital of his adventures occupied him over an 
hour, and Corrie listened with bent brows and without a 
single word of interruption. His pipe went out, and he 
made no attempt to relight it ; the only movement he 
made was to turn his head occasionally, as though some- 
thing Basil had just said had inspired a new thought. 
Basil brought his narrative down to this very night, and 
paused only when he came to where old Corrie accosted 
him at the street door. 

“What do you think of it, Corrie ? ? ' he asked, when 
he had finished. 

“It is wonderful,” said Corrie. “ My story is but a 
molehill by the side of your mountain. There’s no time 
to lose, Master Basil ; a day, an hour, may be precious, 
if little lady is to be saved.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“No time shall be lost/’ said Basil; “an hour’s rest 
in our clothes after we’ve done talking, and at daybreak 
we are off to see how soon and how quickly we can get 
to Bournemouth. There is a question I haven’t asked 
you. How long is it since you were in Bournemouth ? ” 

“It must be six months, quite; but I kept no count 
of time. What a fool I was not to go back and see Emily 
Crawford ! ” 

“ We’ll waste no time in lamenting. What is past is 
past, and no man can foresee what is in the future. Do 
you see, now, how important your evidence is likely to 
be to me? Without it I might be compelled to pass 
through life bearing the shameful name of the villain who 
betrayed me. Corrie, there are anxious and dreaded 
possibilities in the future to which I dare not give utter- 
ance. I can only hope and work. Now let us rest.” 

He wanted Corrie to take his bed, but Corrie refused, 
and, throwing himself on the floor, was soon asleep. 
Not so Basil ; the events of the night had been too excit- 
ing for forgetfulness, and though he dozed off now and 
then, his brain did not rest a moment. He was none the 
worse for it in the morning ; despite the trials he had 
undergone, his naturally strong constitution asserted it- 
self and enabled him to bear a more than ordinary amount 
of fatigue. The moment he arose from his bed old Corrie 
jumped to his feet as brisk as a lark. 

“I’m a new man, Master Basil,” he said; “the pros- 
pect of something to do is as good as wine to me. There’s 
no curse like the curse of idleness. ” 

They washed and breakfasted, and then went out. It 
was early morning, and there were not many people 
astir. 

“We are going first,” said Basil, “ to see Mr. Philpott, 
of whom I told you last night. I have an impression 
that Mr. Gilbert Bidaud is not in England. If we are 
fortunate enough in striking the trail, and he is in a 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


357 


foreign country, the task we are set upon may be long 
and difficult. I am debating whether it would be advis- 
able to ask Philpott to accompany us.” 

“From your opinion of him, ” said Corrie, “he is a man 
to be trusted.” 

“Thoroughly.” 

“ In a foreign country I should be next door to useless, 
except to prove that you are yourself. Mr. Philpott is 
accustomed to such jobs as this, and knows the tricks of 
hunting men down. I should say, take him.” 

“I will, if he is agreeable. He doesn’t know who I 
really am, though he has perhaps a suspicion of the 
truth, and it will be necessary that I should tell him my 
story. If he can come with us I shall have no hesitation 
in confiding in him.” 

They found the Philpott family at breakfast. 

“I thought we were early birds, sir,” said Mr. Philpott, 
while his wife dusted two chairs for the visitors, “ but 
there are other birds, I see, more wide-awake that we 
are. Why, it’s barely seven o’clock ! Breakfast done 
when the clock strikes — that’s my notion of bringing up 
a family.” 

“I’ve something of importance to say to you,” said 
Basil, “when you’ve finished.” 

“Finished now, sir,” said Philpott; “always ready 
for business. We’ll talk outside if you don’t mind. 
Mother hasn’t had time to do the rooms yet.” 

They walked up and down the quiet street, and after 
Basil had ascertained that Philpott was able and willing 
to accompany him, and that the next train for Bourne- 
mouth did not start for a couple of hours, he communi- 
cated to Philpott all he considered it necessary that 
worthy man should know of his history. 

“A singular story, sir,” said Philpott, “about as good 
as anything that’s come my way up to now. I always 
told mother there was something out of the common 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


358 

about you. That Mr. Chaytor must be an out-and-outer 
— as cunning as they make ’em nowadays. It’s as well 
you should have a man like me with you. I know the 
ropes ; you don’t. Let’s get to the office, sir. I must 
give ’em notice I’m going away on an important job. 
Luckily there’s nothing very particular on hand just now.” 

This preliminary was soon accomplished, and Basil 
and his companions arrived at Waterloo Station a few 
minutes before the train started for Bournemouth. On 
the road it was arranged that Basil should go alone to 
Mrs. Crawford’s house. 

“The woman might be frightened,” said Philpott, “ at 
three men coming to make inquiries. To a gentleman 
like you she will be open and frank.” 

Leaving old Corrie and Philpott on the beach, Basil 
walked to Lomax Road, the number of the house in 
which Mrs. Crawford lived being 14, .as he was informed 
by an obliging resident. He lingered outside, and looked 
up at the windows for signs of the magpie, but no sound 
reached his ears, and with somewhat of a despondent 
feeling he knocked at the door. So much depended upon 
the next few minutes ! If he should have to leave Mrs. 
Crawford unsatisfied, without a clue to guide him, he 
w r ould be no further advanced than on the day he first 
set foot in London. All he wanted was a starting-point, 
and he vowed to leave no stone unturned to obtain it, 
and that once he gained it, he would follow it up till it 
led him to the end. The door was opened, and a decent- 
looking woman stood before him. 

“ Mrs. Crawford ?” he said. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ I wish to speak to you upon a subject very dear to 
me ; I can offer no pther excuse for intruding upon you. ” 

There was an unconscious wistfulness in his voice 
which interested Mrs. Crawford. There is no surer way 
of winning a woman’s sympathies than by appealing to 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


359 

them in some such way as this, and making them under- 
stand it is in their power to assist you. 

“ Are you a Bournemouth gentleman, sir? ” asked Mrs. 
Cra wford. 

“ No, I have never been in Bournemouth before to-day. 
I have travelled a long distance to see you. ,, 

“Will you walk in, sir? ” 

He followed her to the sitting-room. A little girl some 
seven or eight years old was sitting there, turning over 
the pages of a child’s picture book. 

“Run and play, Genie,” said the mother. 

“ Your little girl ? ’’asked Basil, drawing the child to his 
knee. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Basil took half-a-crown from his pocket. 

“Ask mamma, by.-and-by, to buy you a toy with this.” 

“What do you say, Genie? ” cried the gratified mother. 

“Thank you, sir,” said the child, holding her bashful 
head down. 

Basil gave her a kiss, and she ran to her mother with 
the half-crown, and afterwards left the room, shyly glanc- 
ing at Basil, whose kind manners, no less than the half- 
crown, had won her heart. And the mother’s also, it is 
almost needless to say. 

Basil looked around the walls. No sign of a bird. 
Then he turned to the mantel-shelf and saw there the 
portrait of a young woman, bearing in her face a strong 
resemblance to Mrs. Crawford. 

“Another daughter of yours,” he observed. “I can 
see the likeness.” 

“Yes, sir, and a good girl, and a good daughter.” 

“I am sure she is. Might I inquire her name?” 

“Emily, sir.” 

“Is she at home? ’’ 

“No, sir; she is abroad with her mistress.” 

Basil’s heart beat high with hope: already there was 
something gained. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


36° 

“Am I mistaken in my belief,” he asked, “ that her 
mistress is Miss Annette Bidaud? ” 

“That is the young lady’s name, sir. I hope you will 
excuse my asking why you keep on looking round the 
room, and why you looked up at the windows of the 
house in the same way before you knocked at the street- 
door? I saw you, sir.” 

“I was looking for an old friend I had an idea was 
here. ” 

“An old friend, sir ? ” 

“Yes, a magpie that Miss Bidaud brought with her 
from Australia.” 

Mrs. Crawford’s face flushed up, and she said in a tone 
of vexation : 

“It was here a little while, sir, and it got me into 
trouble. But it was nobody’s fault but my own. Excuse 
me again, sir — you speak as if you knew Miss Bidaud.” 

“I knew her intimately; she and I were, and I hope 
are, very dear friends. Her father and I had a great 
esteem for each other.” 

“That was in Australia, sir ! ” 

“That was in Australia. Miss Bidaud was but a child 
at the time.” 

“You have seen her since, I suppose, sir?” 

“I have not. To be frank with you, that is the object 
of my visit to you. I earnestly desire to know where 
she is.” 

She is a beautiful young lady now, sir,” said Mrs. Craw- 
ford, diverging a little ; from the expression on her face 
she seemed to be considering something as she gazed 
attentively at Basil. “Perhaps you can recognise her.” 

She handed Basil an album, and he turned over its 
pages till he came to a portrait, which riveted his atten- 
tion. It was the portrait of Annette ; he recognized it 
instantly, but how beautiful she had grown ! An artist 
had colored the picture, and the attractive subject must 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


36 I 

have interested him deeply, so well and skillfully was the 
coloring done. The gracefully-shaped head, the long, 
golden-brown hair, the lovely hazel eyes, magnetized 
Basil, as it were. There was a pensive look in the eyes, 
and something of wistfulness in the expression of the 
mouth, which Basil construed into a kind of appeal. It 
may be forgiven him if he thought that it was to him the 
mute face was appealing. Long and earnestly did he 
gaze : reminiscences of the happy hours they had passed to- 
gether floated through his mind ; her confidence, her trust 
in him, and her father’s last words on the evening 011 which 
he had accepted the guardianship of his child, were never 
less powerful and sacred in the sense they conveyed of a 
duty yet to be performed than they were at this moment. 
When, at length, he raised his eyes from the portrait, Mrs. 
Crawford saw tears in them. Had she had any doubts of 
her visitor, these tears would have dispelled them. 

“ Is she not lovely, sir? ” 

“She has the face of an angel.” 

“That is what my Emily says, sir; she dotes on my 
young lady, sir, and would work her fingers to the bone 
to serve her.” 

“ Miss Bidaud, then, has one faithful friend by her side.” 

“You may say that, sir. There have been mistresses 
and servants, but there never was mistress and servant so 
bound to each other as my Emily and my young lady.” 

“They are in Europe?” 

“Oh, yes, sir, they are in Europe. I’ll tell you pres- 
ently where, but I must finish what I was saying at first. 
It was about the magpie — the bird you were looking for 
— as sensible a feathered thing as ever piped a note. 
Emily wanted badly to come and see me, and some other 
of her relations in England, and it happened that her 

uncle and guardian, Mr. Gilbert Bidaud- you know the 

gentleman, sir ? ” asked Mrs. Crawford, breaking off sud- 
denly ; she had npticed a dark flash in Basil’s eyes at 
mention of the name. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


362 

“I had a brief acquaintance with him in Australia/ 7 
replied Basil. 

“ Do you like him, sir ? Is he a friend of yours ? ” 

Before he replied he looked attentively at her, and a 
tacit understanding seemed to pass between them. With- 
out further hesitation he answered : 

“ I do not like him. He is no friend of mine.” 

Mrs. Crawford nodded her head in a satisfied manner, 
and said. 

“The more likely you are to be a friend of Miss Bidaud’s. 
Well, sir, it happened that Mr. Gilbert Bidaud was going 
to pay a flying visit to several foreign places, and, of 
course, was going to take my young lady with him. He 
never lets her out of his sight if he can help it, but Emily 
is very nearly a match for him. I don’t say quite, but 
very nearly. Emily is clever. Mr. Bidaud made a great 
fuss about taking the bird and the cage with them on this 
journey, and wanted my young lady to leave it behind, 
but she wouldn’t, and proposed instead that Emily should 
have her holiday while they were away and should take 
care of the bird and take it back when her holiday was 
over. That is how the bird came to be here. Eight 
months ago it was, and Emily was away on a visit, when 
a man with a great ugly bear came to the house and began 
to ask questions about the bird. He said just what you 
said, that it was an old friend of his, and that he’d trained 
it for my young lady in Australia. He knew my young 
lady’s name, and he wanted me io tell him where she 
was to be found. Well, sir, I don’t know how it was, but 
I got suspicious of him. What business could a common- 
looking man like him have with a young lady like Miss 
Bidaud? As like as not he wanted to impose upon her, 
and it wasn’t for me to help him to do that. It didn’t look 
well, did it, sir, that a man going about the country with 
a bear should be trapesing after my young lady ? So I 
was very short with him, and I refused to tell him any- 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


3 63 

thing, but said if he liked to come in a day or two Emily 
would be home, and then he could speak to her about my 
young lady. He went away, after leaving his name — 
Corrie, it was — and I never set eyes on him again. That 
seemed to prove I’d done right, but I hadn’t, for Emily 
said, when she came home, that my young lady thought 
a good deal of this Mr. Corrie, and had often spoken of 
him, and that he did train and give her the bird, just as he 
said he had. Emily said my young lady would be very 
sorry when she heard I’d turned Mr. Corrie away, and 
that she would give a good deal if she could see the poor 
man. Every letter I get from my daughter she asks me 
if I’ve seen anything more of Mr. Corrie, and to be sure 
if I do to tell him where my young lady is stopping. I 
could beat myself with vexation when I think of it. 
Perhaps you can tell me something of him, as you were 
all in Australia at the same time. ” 

“I can. He is here with me in Bournemouth.” 

“Here in Bournemouth, sir! Oh, what a relief you 
have given me ! ” 

He told you a true story, Mrs. Crawford, every word of 
it, and is a sterling, honest fellow. You see how wrong 
it is to judge people by their appearance.” 

“Perhaps it is, sir,” said Mrs. Crawford, a little doubt- 
fully, and added, with excusable flattery, “I judged you 
by yours, sir. I hope you will bring Mr. Corrie here, but 
not his bear, sir, and I’ll beg his pardon.” 

“No need to do that; Corrie is the last man to blame 
you for doing what you believed to be right. As for the 
poor bear, it is dead. I will go and fetch Corrie presently, 
and you can make it up with him ; but tell me now where 
Miss Bidaud is to be found.” 

“She is in Switzerland, with her uncle and aunt, sir.” 

“ I want the exact address, Mrs. Crawford, if you please.” 

“Here it is, sir, on a piece of paper. It is my Emily’s 
writing, sir.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


364 

Basil wrote down the address : “Villa Bidaud, Fernex, 
near Geneva, Switzerland.” His hand trembled as he 
wrote. At last he was in sight of land — at last he was 
fairly on the track of the traitor. His heart beat tumult- 
uously, and for a moment he was overcome with dizzi- 
ness ; but he immediately recovered himself, and con- 
tinued the conversation. 

“Do you write to your daughter to this address ? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Villa Bidaud. That sounds as if it were a long-estab- 
lished residence.” 

“They live there on and off, sir, for a few weeks or a 
few months at a time. I think when they go travelling 
the house is shut up.” 

“Your daughter has doubtless given you a description 
of the house. Is it small or large ? ” 

“Large, I should say, and very old. There must be 
a good many rooms in it, and it stands in the middle of 
a very large garden.” 

“Mrs. Crawford, look at me.” 

Somewhat surprised at the request, Mrs. Crawford 
looked at Basil, and saw a face quivering with earnest- 
ness, and eyes in which truth and honor shone. 

“Yes, sir,” she said, and waited. 

“I want you to be certain that I am a man who is to 
be trusted. ” 

“ I am certain of it, sir.’’ 

“That I am a man who would do no woman wrong, 
and that in my present visit to you I am animated by an 
honest, earnest desire to serve the young lady your 
daughter serves and loves.” 

“ I am certain of it, sir.” 

“Being certain of it,” said Basil, “is there nothing 
more you can tell me that might aid me in my desire to 
be of service to Miss Bidaud ? I gather from what you 
have said that your daughter is sincerely attached to her 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 365 

young mistress, and she will know whether Miss Bidaud 
is happy or not.” 

“ I’m not sure, sir,” said Mrs. Crawford, speaking slowly, 
“whether I've a right to tell everything, you being a 
stranger to me.” 

“But not a stranger to Miss Bidaud,” said Basil, eagerly, 
“remember that, Mrs. Crawford. Next to her father, I 
was in Australia her dearest friend ” 

“Are you sure of that, sir ? ” interrupted Mrs. Crawford. 
“We sometimes deceive ourselves. My young lady, to 
my knowledge, had a friend in Australia — a young gentle- 
man like yourself — she thought all the world of. Emily 
says she was never tired of speaking about him and of his 
kindness to her. His name is Mr. Basil Whittingham. 
Perhaps you are acquainted with him ? ” 

“ I know something of him,” said Basil. He had been 
on the point of disclosing himself, but remembrance of the 
part Newman Chaytor was playing checked him in time. 

“Of course, there may be others/’ continued Mrs. Craw- 
ford, “and it isn’t for me to dispute with you; but if 
there’s one thing that is more positive than another, it is 
that my young lady thought all the world of Mr. Whit- 
tingham. You are Miss Bidaud’s friend, and you don’t 
seem to think much of her uncle. That’s the way with 
us. My Emily hates the very sight of him — though she 
doesn’t let him see it, you may be sure, sir — because of 
the way he behaves to Miss Bidaud. How I come to 
know so much about Mr. Whittingham is because all the 
letters he wrote to Miss Bidaud from Australia were ad- 
dressed to my care. If they hadn’t been, my young lady’s 
uncle or aunt would have got hold of them and she would 
never have seen them. When they arrived I used to put 
them in an envelope and address them to my Emily — not 
to Villa Bidaud, but to different post-offices, according to 
the directions she gave me.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


366 

“Were there many of these letters ? ” asked Basil, keep- 
ing guard upon his feelings. 

“About one every six or seven months, sir.” 

“Are you aware whether they afforded pleasure to 
Miss Bidaud? ” 

“Yes, sir, they gave her the greatest possible pleasure. 
She was always happy after she got one, so my Emily 
wrote to me. That makes it all the. stranger. ” 

“ Makes what all the stranger ? ” 

Again Mrs. Crawford looked at Basil with a possible 
doubt of the wisdom of her loquacity ; but she was nat- 
urally a gossip, and, the sluice being open, the waters 
continued to flow. 

“Well, sir, my young lady had set her heart upon Mr. 
Whittingham coming home — that much my daughter 
knew from what she said ; and, although she said noth- 
ing about it to Emily, there was something else she set 
her heart upon. There are some things, you know, sir, 
a delicate-minded young lady doesn’t tell her best friend 
till they’re settled ; and perhaps Miss Bidaud herself didn’t 
quite know what her feelings for Mr. Whittingham were. 
She was very young when she left Australia, and her uncle 
hadn’t been anxious to introduce her to society, so since 
she’s been home she has seen very little of young men. 
But lookers-on can see most of the game, sir, and my 
Emily said to me, ‘ When Mr. Whittingham comes home 
there’ll be a match made up, you see if there won’t, 
mother,’ ‘But how about the uncle? ’ I asked, for it was 
pretty clear to me, from what I heard, that there was no 
love lost between Mr. Bidaud and Mr. Whittingham. 
Then my Emily tells me that, for all my young lady’s 
gentle ways and manners, she sometimes showed a will 
of her own when anything very dear to her was in 
question. That is how she has been able to keep 
the bird Mr. Corrie gave her ; if it hadn’t been that 
she was determined, her uncle would have made away 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


367 

with it long ago. I didn’t quite agree with Emily. 1 
argued like this, sir. Supposing, when Mr. Whitting- 
ham came home, he and my young lady found they 
loved each other, and made a match of it. So far, 
all well and good ; but the moment Mr. Bidaud dis- 
covered it, he would take steps. He is Miss Bidaud’s 
natural guardian, and my young lady is not yet of age. 
What would her uncle do? Whip her away, and take 
her where Mr. Whittingham couldn’t get at her. Perhaps 
discharge Emily, and so deprive Miss Bidaud of every 
friend she has, and of every opportunity of acting con- 
trary to him. He’s artful enough to carry that out. I 
don’t quite know the rights of it, but Emily says he has 
control of all my young lady’s fortune, and she don’t be- 
lieve he has any of his own. Well, then, does it stand to 
reason that he would let the money he lives upon slip 
through his fingers through any carelessness of his own, 
or that he would hand it quietly over to a man he hates 
like poison ? That’s the way I argued, sir ; but it’s all 
tufned out different. Of course you know, sir, that Mr. 
Basil Whittingham’s come home.” 

“ I have heard so,” said Basil, quietly. 

“ And has come into a great fortune ! ” 

“I have heard that, also.” 

“Miss Bidaud was overjoyed when she saw him, and 
her uncle was the other way. But if Emily’s last two 
letters mean anything they mean that things have got 
topsy-turvy like. Mr. Whittingham and Mr. Bidaud are 
great friends now, and as for my young lady being happy, 
that’s more than I can say. There’s no understand- 
ing young people now ; it was different in my time ; but 
there, they say the course of true love never runs smooth. 
One thing seems pretty plain — there’s a screw loose some- 
where in Villa Bidaud. And now, sir, I’ve told you every- 
thing, and likely as not I’ve been too free, and done what 
I shouldn’t. If I have done wrong I shall never hear the 
last of it from Emily.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


368 

You will live to acknowledge,” said Basil, “that you 
have done right, and that your confidence is not mis- 
placed. I thank you from my heart, and am grateful for 
the good fortune that led me to you. Mrs. Crawford, I 
don’t like to offer you money for the service you have 
rendered me, though I hope I shall be in the humor to 
insist, before long, upon your allowing me to make a 
fitting acknowledgment. But there is something I should 
wish to purchase of you.” 

“I have nothing to sell, sir, that you would care to 
have. ” 

“I would give more than its weight in gold,” said 
Basil, laying his hand upon the album, “for the portrait 
of Miss Bidaud. You can have no idea of the value it 
would be to me, and how much I should esteem your 
kindness. Let me have it, I entreat you.” 

“I don’t like to part with it,” said Mrs. Crawford, 
looking admiringly at Basil, “but I can’t refuse you. 
Take it, sir.” 

Basil quickly availed himself of the permission, and 
put a sovereign on the table, saying, “For little Genie. 
Buy her a pretty frock with it.” Then, wishing her good 
day, and thanking her again, he left her to rejoin Old 
Corrie and Mr. Philpott on the beach, and communicate 
the good news to them. Half an hour later Old Corrie 
paid a visit to Mrs. Crawford, and received her profuse 
excuses for the abrupt manner in which she had behaved 
to him. 

“ Nobody can blame you, ma’am,” said Corrie, “for 
fighting shy of a bear. It’s a wonder to me now how I 
came to be mates with the creature. But he was a wor- 
thy comrade, ma’am, rough as his outside was — a deal 
worthier than some men I’ve met with. And I shall 
never forget it, ma’am, because in the first place it brought 
me straight to you, and in the second place it’s taking 
me Straight to little lady.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


369 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

We must now return to Newman Chaytor. He had 
established his position as Basil Whittingham, he had 
obtained possession of Basil’s fortune, he was on a famil- 
iar footing with the Bidauds. In his proceedings respect- 
ing the fortune which Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham had 
bequeathed to his nephew, he experienced, practically, 
no difficulty whatever. The evidence in his possession, 
proving himself to be the man he represented himself 
to be, was complete ; and there being no grounds for 
suspicion, none was aroused. Thus he was so far safe, 
and on the high road. 

He went to London, and remained there only a few 
days. He made no attempt to see his parents, and was 
careful to avoid the neighborhood in which they lived. 
With a large fortune at his disposal, and being fertile in 
methods, he could easily have contrived to convey a few 
pounds to them without drawing attention upon himself ; 
but his character has been unsuccessfully delineated if it is 
supposed he ever allowed himself to yield to the dictates 
of humanity. He knew that his parents were in direst 
poverty — his mother’s last letter to him made this very 
clear — but he had not the slightest feeling of compassion 
for the mother who idolized him or the father he had 
brought to ruin. Self, in its most abhorrent aspect, ruled 
every action of his life. His own ease, his own pleasures, 
his own safety — these were paramount, and pioneered 
him through the crooked paths he had trod since boy- 
hood. 

The correspondence he had kept up with Annette 
rendered it an easy matter for him to find her. He had 
apprised her that he was starting for home, and had 

24 


370 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


directed her not to write to him again to Australia. In 
this last letter he informed her that he had come into a 
great fortune, and that his time would be so taken up by 
business matters for a few weeks, that he would not be 
able to see her immediately he arrived in England. He 
gave her instructions how to communicate with him at 
home, and told her to be sure to keep a corner in her 
heart for him. It is hard to say how many times Annette 
read this letter. Basil was on his way home — coming 
home, coming home, coming home — she kept on repeat- 
ing the magic words ; and there was a light in her eyes, 
music in her voice, and joy in her heart. At last, at last 
he was coming, the friend whom she could trust, the 
man her dear father had loved and honored. She would 
see him soon, for he would not linger over the business 
he had to transact ; her hand would be in his, his eyes on 
her face — and then she blushed and ran to the glass. Had 
she changed since he last saw her? Would he know her 
again, or would she have to say, “ Basil, I am Annette ? ’’ 
No ! that would not be necessary ; she had sent him her 
portrait, and he had told her in a letter that he would 
pick her out of a thousand women. She had changed — 
yes, she was aware of that, and aware, too, that she was 
very beautiful. What woman is not who has grace and 
beauty for her dower ; and is there a woman in the world 
who is not proud of the possession, and who does not 
smile and greet herself in the mirror as she gazes upon 
the bright reflection of a brighter reality ? Annette was 
innocently glad that she was fair and all through her 
gladness the form of Basil was before her. If he liked her 
for nothing else, he would like her for her beauty. The 
quality of vanity there was in this thought was human 
and natural. The name of Basil represented to her all 
that there was of nobility, goodness, and generosity. In 
Basil was centred all that was best and brightest in life. 
She worshipped a^i ideal. He had asked her to keep 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


371 

a corner in her heart for him. Was not her whole heart 
his? And he was coming home — home! The word 
assumed a new meaning. It vvould be truly home when 
Basil was with her. 

“You are excited, Annette, ” said Gilbert Bidaud, who — 
although he seldom indulged in long conversations with 
his niece, noted every sign and change in her. Onfy in 
one respect had he been baffled ; he had not succeeded in 
discovering how the correspondence between Basil and 
Annette was carried on. He suspected Annette's maid, 
Emily, but that shrewd young person was so extraor- 
dinarily careful and astute that he could not lure her, 
for all the traps he set, into betraying herself. He hinted 
once to Annette that he thought of discharging her, but 
Annette had shown so much spirit that he went no 
farther. 

“ Emily is my maid,” said Annette, “ and no one but I 
have a right to discharge her.” 

“And you do not mean to do so ?” said Gilbert Bidaud. 

“ No, uncle, I do not mean to do so.” 

“ Even though I expressed a wish that she should go.” 

“Even then, uncle, I should not consent to her leaving 
me. I am fond of her. If she goes, I go too.” 

“You go! Where?” 

“Where you would not find me, uncle. 

Gilbert thought there would be danger in that. She 
might fall into other hands, and herself and fortune be lost 
to him. • He was not quite sure of his position in respect 
to Annette, and his best safety lay in not disturbing the 
waters. His brother’s affairs in Australia had been admin- 
istered hastily, and he was uneasily conscious that here 
in Europe clever lawyers might make things awkward for 
him. He had Annette’s fortune absolutely in his control ; 
he had used her money for his own purposes, for he had 
none of his own ; he had kept no accounts ; in worldly 
matters Annette was a child, and was not likely to become 


372 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


wiser, so long as she was in his charge. She was 
obedient and docile in most ways, the only exceptions 
being her feeling for Emily and the secret correspondence 
she was carrying on with Basil. These matters were not 
important ; they did not trench upon his authority or 
position. The letters she wrote were such as a fanciful, 
sentimental girl would write, and Basil’s letters were 
probably harmless enough. Besides, he was at a safe 
distance. Time enough to fight when the enemy was in 
view. “He will marry,” thought Gilbert Bidaud, “he 
will forget her. Let her indulge in her fancies. It is 
safest.” So time went on, outwardly calm, till Annette 
received Basil’s letter announcing his intended return to 
England. It was then that Gilbert noted the change in 
her. They were on the continent at the time ; of late 
years Gilbert seldom visited England ; there was more 
enjoyment and greater security for him in his own country 
and in others more congenial to him. He purchased, 
with Annette’s money, a villa in Feme, which he called 
Villa Bidaud. The deeds were made out in his own name ; 
he had come to regard Annette’s fortune as his ; if trouble- 
some thoughts sprang up he put them aside, trusting to 
his own cleverness to overcome any difficulties that might 
present themselves. 

“You are excited, Annette,” he said. 

She hardly knew what to say. To deny it was 
impossible ; her restless movements, her sparkling eyes, 
her joyous face were sufficient confirmation of her uncle’s 
statements. But to admit it would lead to questions 
which she wished to avoid answering. Therefore she was 
silent. 

“ My dear niece,” said Gilbert Bidaud, in his smooth 
voice, “there is not that confidence between us which I 
should wish to exist. Why ? Have I oppressed you ? 
Have I treated you harshly ? You can scarcely so accuse 
me. Have I not allowed you to haye your own way in 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


373 

all things? You have had perfect liberty, have you not? 
Be frank with me. I have at heart only your interests. 
I wish only to secure your happiness. When your poor 
father — my dear brother — died, you were almost a baby, 
a child ignorant of the world and the ways of the world. 
I said to my heart — it is my habit, my dear niece, to 
commune with myself — I said to my heart, * Annette ^ a 
child, an infant, with strong affections and attachments. 
You come to her a stranger, yes, even while you are 
closest to her in blood, you are still to her a stranger. 
She will not regard you with favor ; she will not under- 
stand you. ' And so it was. It was my unhappy duty to be 
stern and hard with some you regarded as friends ; it was 
my duty to be firm with you. Consequently, we com- 
menced badly, and I, who am in my way proud as you 
are, stood aloof from you and exercised the duties of 
guardian and uncle without showing that my heart was 
filled with love for you. Thus have we lived, with a spiritual 
gulf dividing us. My dear n'iece, you are no longer a 
child, you are a woman, who can think for herself, who is 
open to reason. Let us bridge that gulf. I extend to you 
the hand of amity, of love. Take it, and tell me how I 
can minister to your happiness.” 

It was the most gracious, as it was the falsest speech he 
had ever made to her, and she was deceived by its 
specious frankness. She could not refuse the hand he 
held out to her, and as she placed hers within it, she 
reflected, ‘ ‘ When Basil arrives they must meet. They 
were not friends in Australia, but it will be a good thing 
accomplished if they can be made friends here, through 
me. Then Basil can come freely, with uncle's consent, 
and there need be no concealment. Uncle never spoke to 
me like that before, and perhaps I have been to blame as 
well as he. Neither he nor aunt has shown any great 
love for me, but may it not have been partly my own 
fault. If they have wounded me, may I not have 
wounded them.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


374 

Gilbert Bidaud saw that she was reflecting upon the new 
view he had presented to her, and he did not disturb her 
meditations. Presently she said : 

“Uncle, I have had some good news/’ 

“It delights me,” said Gilbert Bidaud. “In your own 
good time you shall confide it to me.” 

“ I will confide it to you now. Basil is coming home. ” 

“See, now,” said Gilbert, in a tone of great good- 
humor, “ how you have misjudged me. Here have you, 
my ward, over whom I have the right to exercise some 
authority, been corresponding with a young gentleman 
between whom and myself there were differences of 
opinion. Candidly I admit that I did not look upon him 
with love. Know now for the first time that on the plan- 
tation I was warned against him, that he had enemies 
who spoke of him as an adventurer. How was I to know 
that those who spoke thus spoke falsely? You may an- 
swer, being a woman who has cherished in her heart a 
regard for her Australian friend, ‘You should have asked 
me ; I would have told you the truth about him.' Ah, but 
consider : What were you? A mere infant, innocent, 
guileless, unsuspecting. I venerate childhood, and ven- 
erate it the more because it has no worldly wisdom. 
Happy, happy state! Would that we could live all our 
lives in ignorance so blissful ! Then there would be no 
more duplicity, no more cheating and roguery. But it is 
otherwise, and we must accept the world. Therefore the 
young gentleman and I crossed swords on the first day 
we met, and from that time have misunderstood each 
other. In my thoughts, perhaps, I have done him 
wrong; in his thoughts, perhaps, he has done me wrong. 
And my niece, the only child of my dear brother, sided 
with the stranger against me. I was wounded, sorely 
wounded ; and when I discovered that you and he were 
writing to each other secretly, I spoke harshly to you ; I 
may even have uttered some foolish thoughts. What 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


375 

man, my child, can be ever wise, can ever say the right 
words, can ever do the right things ? None, not one, and 
I, perhaps, who have peculiar moods and temper, less 
than many. But see, now, what came of those harsh 
words, those foolish threats. You still correspond with 
your friend Basil, and I stood quietly aside and interfered 
not. Could I not have stopped the correspondence, if I 
had been seriously determined so to do? Doubt it not, 
my child. At any moment I could have done so. But I 
said, ‘No, I will not spoil Annette’s pleasure; it is an 
innocent pleasure ; let it go on ; I will not interfere. One 
day my niece will do me justice. And it may be, that 
one day her friend Basil and I will better understand each 
other. ’ Is it not so ? ” 

“Indeed, uncle,” said Annette, timidly, “ it .is I who 
have been in the wrong.” 

“No, no,” said Gilbert, interrupting her, “I will not 
have you say so. The fault was mine. What say the 
English ? You cannot put an old head on young shoulders. 
I expected too much. From to-day we commence afresh. 
Eh, my dear child ? ” 

“Yes, uncle.” 

“ So be it,” he said, kissing her. “We misunderstand 
each other never again. It is agreed. Our friend Basil — 
I will make him my friend if he will let me ; you shall 
see — is coming home. He shall be welcome.” 

“ Uncle, you remove a weight from my heart.” 

“It is what I would do, always. A weight is also 
removed from mine. How long will our friend Basil be 
before he appears ? ” 

“ I do not know exactly. He will write.” 

“He will write,” echoed Gilbert, merrily, pinching 
Annette’s cheek. “We have our secret post-office — ah, 
ah ! Tell him it must be secret no longer. Write openly 
to him ; he shall write openly to you. He has been many 
years in Australia. Has he grown rich on the goldfields ? 
Did he find what they call a golden claim ? 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


376 

“ He does not say ; but I think he did not get rich there. ” 

“ Not get rich there. Did he get rich anywhere, or 
does he come home poor? ” 

The picture of a needy adventurer rose before him, and 
had he not been a master in cunning he would have 
betrayed himself. 

“He writes, ” said Annette, “ that his uncle has left 
him a large fortune.” 

Gilbert drew a long breath of relief* Easier to cope 
with Basil rich than poor. If Basil wanted Annette, and 
Annette wanted him, why, he would make a bargain with 
the young man, who, being wealthy, would not be greedy 
for Annette’s money. Gilbert Bidaud was a keen judge 
of character, and he knew Basil to be a manly, generous- 
hearted, honorable fellow, who would be more likely to 
despise than to covet money with the girl he loved. If 
that were so, Gilbert saw a road to immunity for the past 
and a life of independence in the future. There was a 
striking resemblance in certain features of his character 
and that of Newman Chaytor, as there is in the natures of 
all purely selfish men. 

“That is a pleasant thing to hear,” he said. “ I con- 
gratulate him from my heart.” He would have added, 
“ And I congratulate you,” but he restrained himself; it 
was delicate ground, and it would be better to wait. Sub- 
sequently, in a conversation with his sister, he expressed 
himself more freely. Basil would be received and wel- 
comed — yes, but he would be carefully sounded and ob- 
served and she was to play her part both with Annette 
and her lover. It pleased Gilbert to call him so, but it did 
not please the girl’s aunt. 

“You have foolish ideas,” she said. “Annette was 
thirteen years when we took her from the plantation. 
What kind of love could a man have for such a child?” 

“You will see, you will see,” said Gilbert. “This 
Basil is what we call an eccentric, and it is because he is 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


377 

so that I have settled upon the plan of bringing them to- 
gether under our noses. Remember my idiot of a brother 
left me not a coin. We have our future to look to, and 
gentleman Basil is the man to make it sure for us. Would 
you wish to have to slave for your bread as you used to 
do — and often not get it ? ” 

“No; but if I have an enemy I like him at a dis- 
tance.” 

“Foolish woman! If I have an enemy, I like him 
here, close to me, where my hand can reach him. I will 
have him — if I have the choice, as I have now — in the 
light, not in the dark.” 

Annette also had a conversation with her trusty maid 
Emily concerning this new revelation in Gilbert Bidaud’s 
character. Annette was very enthusiastic about it, and 
very self-reproachful concerning the past, but Emily 
looked grave and shook her head. 

“ I’d rather agree with you than not, miss,” she said, 
“but I don’t think I can about your uncle.” 

“You must not be obstinate and prejudiced, Emily,” 
said Annette, with mild severity. 

“I’ll try not to be, miss, but if an animal is born a 
donkey, a donkey he remains all the days of his life.” 

Annette laughed, and said, of course; but what did 
Emily mean ? 

“It’s a roundabout way of explaining myself,” said 
Emily. “ And there’s different kinds of donkeys, some 
mild, and that’ll take the whip as patient as a wooden 
dummy ; others that’ll kick out and let fly at you with 
their heels. The same with horses, the same with dogs, 
the same with cats.” 

“What do you mean, Emily ? ” 

“Only when vice is in an animal you can’t wheedle it 
out of him. No more you can out of a man or a woman. 

I don’t say they can help it, but what’s born in ’em must 
come out. If I’m born sly I keep sly, and the chances 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


378 

are I grow slyer as I grow older. I don’t believe in sud- 
den changes, miss, and if you’ll excuse me I’ll wait a 
little before I make up my mind about your uncle.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

Newman Chaytor first met Annette in Paris. She wrote 
to him to London, saying that her uncle intended to 
make a stay there of a few weeks, and telling him the 
name of the hotel they stopped at. Chaytor’s business in 
London was by that time transacted, and he was nervous 
to get away with his spoil. Bold as he had been, and 
little as he believed he had to fear, there were moments 
when he was seized with panic. What if Basil should 
not be dead? What, if, recovering, and being rescued 
from the tomb into which Chaytor had plunged him, some 
suspicion should cross his mind of the treachery which 
had been practised towards him ? What if, after that, 
bent upon revenge, he should find his way home, and 
there discover how he had been wronged and robbed ? 
Newman Chaytor was bathed in cold sweat, and his limbs 
shook, as he contemplated this contingency. In his 
calmer moments he strove to laugh himself out of his 
fears, but he never entirely got rid of them, and he 
deemed it safer to live most of his time out of England. 
For reasons of safety, also, he converted Basil’s fortune 
into cash, and carried a large portion of it upon his person 
in Bank of England notes. He had clothes made after 
his own design, and in his waistcoats and trousers were 
inner pockets, in which he concealed his treasure. There 
were five bank notes of a thousand pounds each, twenty 
of five hundred each, and the rest in hundreds and fifties. 
They occupied but little space, and during the first month 
or two of his coming into possession of the money he was 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


379 

continually counting' it in the secresy of his room, with 
doors locked and windows shaded. The passing of a 
cloud, the fluttering of a bird’s wings outside his window, 
the sound of breathing or footsteps across his door, drove 
him into agonies of apprehension as he was thus engaged. 
He would stop suddenly and listen, and creep to door or 
window and wait there till the fancied cause for fear was 
gone ; then he would resume his operations and pack the 
money away in the lining of his clothes. The dread of los- 
ing it, of his being robbed, of its being wrested from him, 
was never absent. When he entered a new hotel he exam- 
ined the doors of his rooms, tried the locks and fastenings, 
and peered about in every nook and corner, until he was 
satisfied that there was no chink or loophole of danger. 
But as fast as his fears were allayed in one direction they 
sprang up in another. The hydra-headed monster he had 
created for himself left him no rest by day or night. He 
slept with his clothes under his bolster, and waking up, 
would grope in the dark with his hands to assure himself 
that they had not been taken away. There were nights 
which were nothing less than one long terror to him. 
The occupants of the apartments to the right or left of 
him were talkative ; he could not catch the sense of their 
words, but they were, of course, talking of him. They 
were quiet ; of course they were so to put him off his 
guard. He would jump from his bed and stand, listen- 
ing, and whether he heard sounds or heard none, every 
existent and non-existent sign became a menace and a 
terror. As time wore on it could not be but that these 
fears became less strong and vivid, but they were never 
entirely obliterated, and were occasionally revived in 
all their original force. There was, however, one new 
habit which he practised mechanically, and of which he 
never got rid. This was a movement of his left hand 
towards those parts of his clothing in which the money 
was concealed. He was quite unconscious of the fre- 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


380 

quency of this peculiar motion, and took as little notice 
of it as any man takes of the natural movements of his 
limbs. 

When he received Annette’s letter informing him that they 
were in Paris he immediately resolved to go there. “I 
am wondering,” wrote Annette, “whether we shall see 
you here, or whether we shall have to wait because your 
business is not finished. You must forget all that I have 
said about Uncle Gilbert ; w*e did not understand each 
other, but we do now, and he is very, very kind to me ; 
and although he cannot be as anxious to see you as I am, 
he is ready to give you a warm and hearty welcome. ” 

“She is an affectionate little puss,” thought Chaytor, 
“and does not seem to conceal anything from her dear 
Basil, but if she thinks I am going to tie myself to her 
apron-strings she is mistaken. I will feel my way with 
her, and — yes, a good idea ! I will have a peep at her 
somehow without her seeing me, before I introduce my- 
self. Judging from the photograph she sent me in Aus- 
tralia” — he was so accustomed to think of himself as Basil 
that he often forgot he was Newman Chaytor — “ she is 
as pretty as a picture ; but then portraits are deceitful — 
like the originals. They are so touched up by the photog- 
raphers that a very ordinary-looking woman is trans- 
formed into an angel. If that is the case with Annette 
she will see very little of me. Give me beauty, bright 
eyes, white teeth, a good figure; a pretty, kissable mouth, 
and I am satisfied. So, my little Annette, it all depends 
upon yourself. As for Uncle Gilbert, it is a good job that 
he is changed ; it will make things easier for me. I don’t 
want to quarrel, not I, and if I take a fancy to Annette, 
and he can help to smooth the way for me, why, all the 
better.” 

From the day he set foot on the vessel which brought 
him to England, Chaytor had been most painstaking and 
careful about his appearance, He spent hour$ before the 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


381 

glass arranging his hair after the fashion of Basil’s hair, 
as our hero had worn it in England ; and, being a bit of 
of an artist, he succeeded perfectly. The resemblance 
was marvellous, and Chaytor congratulated himself and 
chuckled at his cleverness. “Upon my soul,” he said, 
“ we must have been changed at our birth. I am Basil, 

and he ” He paused. No shudder passed through 

him, he was visited by no pang of remorse, at the thought 
of Basil lying dead at the bottom of the shaft. It must 
have been very quick and sudden ; death must have en- 
sued instantaneously. Had he not listened and lingered, 
without a sound of suffering, without even a sigh, reach- 
ing him? “No man could do more than that,” he 
thought. “There’s no telling what I should have done 
if he had groaned, or cried for help. But as he was dead 
and done for, what was the use of my loitering there ? ” 
Across the many thousands of miles of sea and land, his 
mental vision travelled with more than lightning swift- 
ness, and he saw at the bottom of a dark shaft the form 
of his victim huddled up and still. And as he gazed, the 
form unfolded itself, and rising to its feet, glided towards 
him. This vision had presented itself once before, and 
he acted now as he had acted then. Almost frenzied he 
dashed the phantom aside, with as much force as if Basil 
had stood bodily before him, and, finding that this was 
of no avail, threw himself upon the ground, and grovelled 
there with closed eyes until reason re-assumed its sway 
and whispered that he was but the fool of fevered fancies. 
“ I shall go mad if I don’t mind,” he muttered. “I know 
what’s the matter with me ; lam keeping myself too sol- 
itary. I want friends, companionship.” It is a fact that 
he would not make friends with any one ; the fewer 
questions that were asked of him the better. He was in 
constant dread of meeting with some person of whom 
Basil had not spoken who would begin to speak of old 
imes, Out of England this was not so likely to occur. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


382 

Man of pleasure as he was, he had never been a heavy 
drinker, but now he flew to brandy to deaden his fears. 
Altogether, despite his success, he was not greatly to be 
envied. The lot of the poorest and most unfortunate of 
men is to be preferred to that of the man of evil heart, 
whose Nemesis is ever by his side, throwing its black 
shadow over every conscious hour. 

On the Continent Chaytor experienced some relief. He 
had always been fond of Paris, and now he threw him- 
self with zest into the pleasures of that gay city. “ This 
is life,” he said enthusiastically;, “it is for this I have 
worked. Eureka ! I have found the philosopher’s stone 
— freedom, light, enjoyment.” He was in no hurry to go 
to Annette ; he would have his fling first — but that, he 
said to himself, he would always have, Annette or no An- 
nette. His misfortune was that he could not rule circum- 
stance. Gilbert Bidaud set eyes on him as he was driving 
with some gay companions, for here in Paris Chaytor 
was not so bent upon avoiding society as in England. 
“Surely,” mused the elder fox, as he slipped into a car- 
riage and gave the driver instructions to follow Chaytor 
and his companions, “that is my old friend Basil, for 
whom my foolish niece is looking and longing. He 
presented himself to me in the Australian wilderness as a 
model of perfection, a knight without a stain upon his 
shield, but in Paris he appears v to be very human. Very 
human indeed,” he repeated with a laugh, as he noted the 
wild gayety of the man he was following. Be sure that 
he did not lose sight of his quarry until he learnt as many 
particulars concerning it as he could gain. So fox watched 
fox, and the game went on, Annette waiting and dream- 
ing of the Bayard without flaw and without reproach who 
reigned in her heart of hearts. 

“Have you heard from our friend Basil ? ” asked Gilbert 
Bidaud. 

“Not for ten days,” replied Annette. 


“ He said he 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


383 

feared he would not have time to write again till he came 
to Paris, he was so beset with lawyers and business men/ < 

“Yes, yes, said Gilbert; “he must have much to do. 
He will come to us, I hope, the moment he reaches Paris.” 

“Oh, yes, uncle; he will not wait a day, an hour; he 
will come straight here.” 

Gilbert Bidaud nodded cheerfully, and said no more, 
but his cunning mind was busy revolving pros and cons. 

Chaytor, after a while, carried out his resolution of see- 
ing Annette before he presented himself to her. Ascer- 
taining the rooms she and her people occupied, he engaged 
apartments for a couple of days in an hotel, from the 
windows of which he could observe her movements. He 
used opera-glasses, and so arranged his post of observa- 
tion that he could not himself be seen. In the pretty 
minutiae of small schemes he was a master. 

The first time he saw Annette he almost let his glasses 
fall from his hand. Her radiant countenance, her spar- 
kling eyes, the beauty of her face, the grace of her move- 
ments, were a revelation to him. Never had he seen a 
creature so lovely and perfect. So fascinated was he that he 
dreaded it might not be Annette — but yes, there was her 
uncle Gilbert Bidaud standing now by her side, and ap- 
parently talking pleasantly to her. Chaytor, though he 
had seen the old man but once in the Australian woods, 
when he was a concealed witness of the interview between 
Gilbert, Basil, and Annette, recognized him immediately. 
Gilbert Bidaud was not changed in the least, and Chaytor 
decided within himself that neither Basil nor Annette knew 
how to manage the old fellow. He, Newman Chaytor, 
would be able to do so ; he would be the master of the 
situation, and would pull the strings of his puppets accord- 
ing to his moods and wishes. He did not dream that 
Gilbert Bidaud was aware that he was in their vicinity, that 
he even knew the number of the rooms he had engaged 
in the hotel, and the name he had assumed for the pur- 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


3^4 

poses of his secret watch. From the moment that Gilbert 
had set eyes upon him every step he took, every move- 
ment he made, was noted down by agents employed by 
the old man, who kept a written record for possible use 
in the future. These two forces were well matched, but 
the odds were in favor of the elder animal. “ It is clear/’ 
said Newman Chaytor, “ that Basil was mistaken in his 
estimate of Gilbert Bidaud, and that he poisoned Annette’s 
mind against her uncle. The old man is harmless enough, 
and he and I will be great friends.” Presently Gilbert 
kissed his niece and left the room, laughing to himself at 
the comedy scene he had played. His thoughts may 
also be put into words. 

“ He is in that room, watching Annette. He has 
arranged the curtains and the furniture in the manner 
most convenient for his watch. What is his object, and 
what do his movements prove ? He wishes to convince 
himself that Annette is a bird attractive enough to follow, 
to woo, to win. If I knew what has passed between 
them in the letters they wrote to each other, I should be 
more certain of my conclusions, but as it is I shall not be 
far out. He wishes also to observe me secretly, and to 
make up his mind about me before we come together. 
Well, he shall have opportunity — he shall see what a 
kind, pleasant uncle I am. ,We were not the best of 
friends across the ocean — in good truth, we were as bitter 
enemies as men could possibly be ; and he remembers 
that we exchanged hard and bitter words. Do I bear an- 
imosity ? No ; here, my dear friend, is my hand : take it. ” 
He held it out, and the cunning of his nature was exposed 
in the expression of his thin lips, and his cold blue eyes. 
“ But what do his movements prove? That, setting him- 
self up as a gentleman, above doing a sly action, profuse 
in his scorn of others and in glorification of himself, he is 
the personification of low cunning and meanness. He 
deceived me when we clashed in the forest ; expressing 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


385 

scorn of him, and flinging mud upon his motives, I yet 
believed him to be a gentleman, and was in my soul angry 
because the belief was forced upon me. Bah ! my friend 
Basil, my self-elected gentleman of honor unblemished, 
and untarnished, you are unmasked. You play your game ; 
I will play mine. We shall see who will win.” 

While these communings were going on Chaytor con- 
tinued his watch. His greedy eyes dwelt upon Annette’s 
sweet face — heavens, he thought, how beautiful she is ! — 
his sinful soul gloated upon her grace of form and feature. 
Would she know him when her eyes fell upon him ? 
Would she see at once that he was Basil, or was there any- 
thing in his appearance that would inspire a doubt ? That 
afternoon he examined himself narrowly in the glass. He 
practised Basil’s little tricks of motion, one of the most 
conspicuous of which was the caressing of his moustache 
between finger and thumb, and any doubts he may have 
had disappeared. “ I am more like Basil Whittingham 
than he ever was,” he said. “Even in a court of law 
the chances would be all on my side.” When he was in 
a confident mood nothing more improbable could be con- 
ceived than that Basil would ever cross his path. It was 
not improbable, it was impossible. Basil was dead, and 
there was an end of the matter ; he had all the field to 
himself. 

He continued to observe Annette from his window, 
and the more he saw of her the more constantly did his 
thoughts dwell upon her. During these days he went 
through many rehearsals of the part he was playing, re- 
calling all that Basil had told him of his association with 
Annette, the scenes they had walked through, the conver- 
sations they had indulged in. He was letter-perfect in 
what had passed between Basil and Annette’s father, and 
his retentive memory had preserved all the incidents in 
the scene in the Australian woods, when Gilbert Bidaud 
and his sister had surprised them near old Corrie’s hut. 

25 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


386 

“ Old Corrie,” thought Chaytor, “ had a down on me, and 
came near to spoiling my game ; but I’ve been more than 
a match for the lot of them. What has become of the old 
busy-body ? Dead, most likely. Everybody’s as good as 
dead who could touch or interfere with me. And Annette, 
the pretty Annette, is ready to fall into my arms the mo- 
ment I make my appearance.” 

It will be remembered that on the last meeting between 
Basil and Annette, she gave him a locket containing her 
mother’s portrait, and that, when Gilbert Bidaud flung it 
away into the bush, Newman Chayior picked it up and 
kept it close. From that day to this he had never parted 
with it, and now, being about to present himself to An- 
nette, he put it round his neck, conscious that it would be 
a good card to play under any circumstances. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

Annette was at lunch with her uncle and aunt in the 
public room of the hotel, when a gentleman entered, and 
took his seat at another table close by. Annette, looking 
up from her plate, flushed rosy red, and in uncontrollable 
excitement, started to her feet, then sank back into her 
chair with her eyes fixed upon the new-comer. Gilbert 
Bidaud had also noted the entrance of the gentleman, 
although his eyes seemed to be directed to another part of 
the room ; he took no outward notice, but inwardly said, 
“ Ah, ah, friend Basil, you have decided at last to appear. 
Now for a few clever lies.” 

“ Uncle ! ” whispered Annette. 

“ Yes, my niece,” said Gilbert, ‘ 4 what do you wish?” 

“Look there, uncle ; look there.” 

Gilbert looked in the desired direction and said, “ I see 
a gentleman. ” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 387 

“Do you not know who it is, uncle? Do you not 
recognize him ? ” 

“As I live/’ said Gilbert, “I believe him to be our 
Australian friend, Basil. But no — I may be deceived. ” 

“It is he, uncle ; it is he. Oh, why will he not look 
this way ? ” 

At that precise moment, Chaytor, who was speaking to 
a waiter, turned towards Annette, and their eyes met. 
He rose and walked towards her, with a certain air of 
irresolution, but with an expression of eager delight in his 
face. 

“ Basil ?” she cried, advancing to him. 

“Is it possible ?” exclaimed Chaytor, hugging himself 
with satisfaction at this unhesitating recognition. It was 
not only that there were no obstacles to remove, no awk- 
ward explanations to make, but it was a tribute to his 
powers of duplicity, almost the crowning stone in the mon- 
ument of deception he had erected with so much skill. 
“Annette I ” 

“Oh, Basil, Basil ! ” cried Annette, holding out her 
hands, which he clasped in his. “How happy I am to 
see you — how happy, how happy ! ” 

Gilbert Bidaud, who had watched in silence the progress 
of this comedy, now stepped forward. 

“You must allow me to interfere,” he said. “ We are 
not alone. There are other ladies and gentlemen in the 
room, and their eyes are on you. We will adjourn to our 
apartments.” 

He took Annette’s hand and led the way, and in a few 
moments they were able to converse without drawing 
upon themselves the attention of strangers.” 

“You will excuse me,” said Gilbert to Chaytor with 
grave courtesy, pointing to a chair, “but I think this is 
better. ” 

“ Infinitely better, M. Bidaud,” said Chaytor, “ and I 
thank you for recalling me to myself. May I hope you 
will shake hands with me ? ” 


383 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“ Willingly. Let bygones be bygones. We did not 
understand each other at the other end of the world; we 
will manage better at this end. When did you arrive in 
Paris ? ” 

“This morning. I travelled by the night mail.” 

“Lie the first,” thought Gilbert Bidaud as he smiled and 
nodded. 

“A weary journey, and I wanted to get rid of the stains 
of travel before I presented myself. I was afraid Annette 
— or I should rather now say, Miss Bidaud — might not 
recognize me.” 

“I should have known you anywhere,” said Annette 
softly. 

“And you, M. Bidaud?” asked Chaytor, turning laugh- 
ingly to the old man. 

“Anywhere, anywhere ! ” cried Gilbert enthusiastically. 
“You have the distinguished appearance, the grand air, 
which made me mistrust you on my lamented brothers 
plantation. But we mistrusted each other, eh, friend 
Basil?” 

“Well, we did; but, as you say, ‘ let bygones be by- 
gones. ' ” 

“They shall be. If we speak of them it shall be to 
teach us lessons. I will leave you and my niece together 
for, say, half an hour, and then we will drive out. The 
day is fine — this reunion is fine — everything is fine. My 
dear niece, I salute you.” 

Annettes cup of happiness was full. She had expe- 
rienced a momentary pang when she heard herself called 
Miss Bidaud, but she knew that it was right. She was no 
longer a child, and although she had always commenced 
her letters with ‘ ‘ My dear Basil, ” she would have hesitated, 
now that they were together, had she sat down to write to 
him. They had so much to talk about ! All the old days 
were recalled, and if once or twice Chaytor tripped, his 
natural cleverness and Annettes assistance soon put him 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


389 

right. In such a matter as the last meeting in the forest 
between Basil and Annette, of which he was a secret wit- 
ness, he was very exact, his faithful memory reproducing 
the smallest detail. 

“ Do you remember this?” he asked, showing her the 
locket. 

She gazed at her mother’s portrait with tears in her eyes. 

“I was afraid it was lost,” she said, “ when uncle threw 
it away.” 

“What a hunt I had for it,” said Chaytor, “ For hours 
and hours did I look about, and almost despaired of find- 
ing it. I’ll tell you what came into my mind. If I don’t 
find the locket I shall never see Annette again ; if I do, I 
shall. And when it was in my hands I looked upon it as 
a good omen. I believe it has brought me straight to you. 
It has never left me ; day and night I have worn it round 
my neck.” 

“Old Corrie helped you to find it,” said Annette. 

“ Oh, yes, of course, but it was I, not he, who first saw it 
lying among the leaves. By-the-by, is that magpie still 
in the land of the living ? ” 

“Yes, I have it in my room.” Annette blushed as she 
spoke, thinking of the endearing words of Basil she had 
taught the bird to speak. “It is all the dearer to me now 
that its poor master has gone.” 

Then Chaytor began to speak of his trials and troubles 
in Australia, and of his fear that he would never be able 
to return to England. 

“ I used to fret rarely over it,” he said. “ I would not 
tell you so in my letters, because I did not want to make 
you sad. But all that is over now ; I am rich, and there 
is nothing but happiness before us.” 

“ Nothing but happiness before us ! ” Annette’s heart 
beat tumultuously as she heard those words. New hopes, 
new joys, were gathering, of which she scarcely knew 
the meaning. She did not seek for it ; it was sufficient 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


390 

that Basil was with her, unchanged, the same dear friend 
he had ever been. They had so much to say to each other 
that Gilbert Bidaud’s entrance at the end of half an hour 
was an unwelcome interruption. 

“Come, come, young people,” he said, merrily, “the 
bright sun invites us. You can talk as we ride.” 

His voice was benignant, his manner paternal, and 
during the ride he did not intrude upon them. That night 
Annette went to bed a perfectly happy woman. No 
doubts or fears beset her. She was conscious of a certain 
undefinable change in Basil which she could not exactly 
explain to herself. His voice appeared to be in some way 
altered ; it was scarcely so gentle as it used to be, and 
there was a difference also in his manner of speech. But 
she did not dwell upon these impressions ; the change 
was more likely in her than in him ; she had grown, she 
had ripened, childhood’s days were over. Then Basil had 
passed through much suffering, and had been for years in 
association with rough men. What wonder if his man- 
ners were less refined than she remembered them to be ? 
But his heart was unchanged ; he was the same Basil as 
of old — tender, devoted, and as deeply attached to her as 
she had dared to hope. Emily, assisting her young mis- 
tress to undress, found her less conversational than usual. 
She divined the cause, and was sympathetically quiet, 
asking but few questions, and listening with unaffected 
interest to what Annette had to say. Emily had not yet 
seen Basil, but her views with respect to him were fixed ; 
she was quite ready to subscribe to Annette’s belief that 
he was above the standard of the ordinary mortal, and 
she had set her heart upon its being a match between 
them ; and when, while she was assisting her mistress, 
she saw her, in the glass, smile happily to herself, as one 
might do who was under the influence of a happy dream, 
she was satisfied that some progress had already been 
made towards the desired end. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


39 1 

As for Newman Chaytor, he left Annette that night in a 
very contented, not to say ecstatic, frame of mind. There 
had not been a hitch ; he had passed through the exami- 
nation with flying colors. He approved not only of him- 
self, he approved of Annette. She was beautiful from a 
distance, but far more than beautiful did she prove to be 
when he came into association with her ; her winning 
voice, her tenderness, her charm of manner made as deep 
an impression upon him as a nature so entirely selfish as 
his was capable of receiving. It was not possible that he 
could entertain true and sincere love for any human being, 
but Annette inspired within him those feelings which took 
the place of such a love. “She has bewitched me,” he 
said. “I can’t drive her out of my thoughts, and don’t 
want to, the little darling ! Basil, my double, had a good 
eye for the future. He saw what she would grow into, 
and intended to save her for himself; and so he has, for I 
am he. My other self, I drink to you ! ” It was in the 
solitude of his chamber that he communed thus with 
himself. Brandy and water were before him ; he mixed 
a stiff glass in which to drink the toast, and raised it to 
his lips as he uttered the last words. Scarcely had the 
glass touched his lips when it fell to the ground and was 
shattered to pieces. There before him was the vision of 
the shaft with the dead body of his other self lying at the 
bottom. It rose and moved towards him. ‘ * Curse you ! ” 
he cried. “Can I never get rid of you?” A silent voice 
answered him : “ Never, while you live. I am the shadow 
of your crime. I shall be with you— dogging you, haunt- 
ing you — to the last hour of your sinful life ! ” 


39 2 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


CHAPTER XL. 

Gilbert Bidaud was puzzled. As well as any man 
in the world did he know the true metal when he saw it, 
and when he was in doubt and had the opportunity of 
applying tests he did so, and thus resolved his doubts. 
He had done so in the case of Newman Chaytor, with 
the result that he proved the metal to be spurious ; and 
still he was not satisfied with the proof. There was 
something behind the scenes which was hidden from him, 
and with all his cleverness he could not obtain sight of it. 

His acquaintance with Basil in Australia had been brief, 
but he had learnt in that short time to hate him most 
cordially. This hatred was intensified by the conviction 
that forced itself upon him that Basil was a straight- 
forward, honorable gentleman. Gilbert Bidaud never 
allowed his prejudices to blind him and obscure his judg- 
ment. When he found himself in a difficult position he 
was careful that his view of the circumstances with 
which he had to contend was a clear one, and, whatever 
discomfort he might bring upon himself by this course, it 
was invariably of assistance to him in the end he desired 
to attain. Recognizing in Basil the gentleman and the 
man of honorable impulse he knew exactly where to 
sting him and how to cope with him. Looking forward 
to association with Basil in Europe he had schooled him- 
self beforehand as to the methods to pursue with respect 
to him. But these methods were not necessary. The 
Basil between whom and himself there was now regular 
intercourse, was a different Basil from the man he had 
known across the seas, easier to manage and grapple 
with. So far, so good, but it did not content Gilbert 
Bidaud. By no process of reasoning could he reconcile 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


393 

the opposing characteristics of the man he had to fear. 
Where Basil was straight Chaytor was crooked, where 
he was manly and independent Chaytor was shy and 
cringing. The physical likeness was sufficiently striking 
to deceive the world ; the moral likeness could deceive 
very few, and certainly not for long an intellect like 
Gilbert Bidaud’s. They had been intimate now many 
months, and Chaytor was regarded as one of the family. 
Beneath Ihe tests which Gilbert employed his character 
had gradually unfolded itself. He drank, he gambled, he 
dissipated, and in all his vices Gilbert led him on and 
fooled him to the top of his bent, the elder man becoming 
every day more convinced that there was here a mystery 
which it would be useful to himself to unfold. All he 
wanted was a starting-point, and it was long before it 
presented himself ; but it came at last. 

The rift of light shone on a day when Gilbert Bidaud 
had taken it into his head to direct the conversation to the 
first time he and Basil had met. Chaytor and Gilbert were 
alone, and had just finished a match at piquet, which left 
the more experienced gamester of the two a winner of a 
couple of hundred pounds. Chaytor was in a vile temper ; 
he was a bad loser, and Gilbert had won a considerable 
sum of him within the last few weeks. Had his brain 
been as evenly balanced as that of his antagonist he would 
have recognized in him a superior player, and would have 
declined to play longer with him for heavy stakes ; but, 
unluckily for himself, he believed he was the equal of any 
man in games of skill, and the worst qualities of pride 
were aroused by his defeats. 

“Curse your luck ! ” he cried. 

“ It will turn, it will turn,” said Gilbert complacently ; 
“it cannot last, with so good a player as yourself. If we 
had even cards I should have a poor chance with you.” 

He poured out brandy for Chaytor and claret for himself. 
Liquor was always handy when these two were together, 


394 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


and Gilbert never drank spirits. Chaytor emptied his 
glass, and Gilbert sipped at his, and then directed the 
conversation to their first meeting on the plantation. 

“ You must remember it well,” said Gilbert. 

“Of course I do, ” said Chaytor, ungraciously, helping 
himself to more brandy. “One doesn’t soon forget his 
dealings with Mr. Gilbert Bidaud.” 

“Yes, yes, I make myself remembered,” said Gilbert, 
laughing with an affectation of good-humor. “For me, 
I have never forgotten that alligator. I can see it now, 
lying without motion among the reeds.” 

“What are you driving at ?” exclaimed Chaytor, to 
whom, as it happened, Basil had never given any account 
of the details of this first meeting with Gilbert Bidaud. 
“If you want to humbug me you will have to get up 
earlier in the morning, my friend.” 

“ Why, that is certain,” said Gilbert, continuing to 
laugh, but with a strange thoughtfulness in his observ- 
ance of Chaytor. “I was only recalling an incident that 
occurred on the morning I arrived on the plantation. We 
had tramped though the bush, my sister and I, my poor 
brother having urged us to hasten, and we arrived early 
in the morning, tired and dusty. Before us stretched a 
river, and, leaving my sister to rest beneath the wide- 
spread branches of a tree, I sought a secluded, spot where 
I could bathe. I undressed, and was about to plunge into 
the water, when I beheld lurking among the reeds a 
monstrous alligator. A workman on the plantation, 
chancing to pass that way, ran down the bank and seized 
my arm, and, pointing to the alligator, said, with refer- 
ence to a remark I made about being ready for my 
breakfast, that, instead of eating, I might be eaten. It was 
kind of that workman to make the attempt to save me. 
If it had been you, friend Basil, you might not just the^ 
have been so anxious to deprive the monster of a savory 
meal.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


395 

“It is pretty certain,” acquiesced Chaytor, with a sneer, 
1 1 that I should have left you to your fate.” 

“Now that is frank and honest,” said Gilbert, “and 
what I like in you. Not for you the trouble of meaning 
one thing and saying another. It was not unlikely, how- 
ever, that this kind workman, one of the laborers on 
the plantation, might have mentioned this incident of the 
alligator to you. ” 

“ Whether it was or wasn’t he didn’t mention it. 
This is the first time I have heard the interesting story.” 

“Ah, it is interesting, is it not? It was from this same 
obliging workman that I learnt many particulars of my 
brother’s domestic affairs, of which I was ignorant, hav- 
ing been so long separated from him.” 

And then Gilbert Bidaud, with something more than a 
suspicion that he had his fingers on the pulse of the mys- 
tery which was perplexing him, recapitulated, as nearly 
as he could recall them, all the particulars of the conver- 
sation between Basil and himself on this occasion of their 
first meeting, with not one of which was Chaytor familiar. 
Chaytor, continuing to drink, listened contemptuously to 
this “small talk,” as he termed it, and wanted to know 
why Gilbert Bidaud bored him with such stuff ; but the 
old man continued, and finally wound up with an in- 
vented account of a meeting with Basil on the plantation, 
to which Chaytor, ignorant of what was true and what 
w^as false, willingly subscribed, and thus materially assisted 
in the deception that was being practised upon him. At 
length Gilbert Bidaud rose, with the intention of taking his 
leave. 

“And how goes matters,” he asked, “ with you and my 
niece ? Does the course of true love still run smooth ? ” 

“Never you mind,” retorted Chaytor, “whether it does 
or doesn’t. It isn’t your affair.” 

“Perhaps not. You are not in a gracious humor, 
friend Basil. We will speak of it another time. Do not 
forget that I am Annette’s guardian. ” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


30 

‘ ‘ Oh, no, I’ll not forget. When she and I settle things 
I shall want some information from you.” 

“About? ” asked Gilbert, and paused. 

“About her fortune. You see, up till now, my friend, 
you have had it all your own way.” 

“True, true. We will speak of it. Oh, yes, we will 
speak of it,” adding inly, “And of other things as well, 
my mysterious friend. ” 

The remaining portion of that day Gilbert Bidaud devoted 
himself to thought, the subject being the man who called 
himself Basil Whittingham. This, with him, was a dis- 
tinct process ; he had cultivated the art of marshalling 
facts and evidence, of weighing their relative value and 
their direct and indirect bearing upon the problem he was 
endeavoring to solve, and of imparting into it all the ar- 
guments which would naturally suggest themselves to 
an intellect so subtle and astute as his own. “ Outside,” 
thought Gilbert, “he is Basil, the man I knew ; inside he 
is not Basil, the man I knew. The outside of a man may 
change, but it is against nature that his character should 
be twisted inside out — that it should turn from white to 
black from black to white. In my estimate of Basil on my 
brother’s plantation I was not mistaken ! and that being so, 
this man and that man are not the same inwardly. How 
stands my niece in regard to him ? She was all joy when 
he first joined us ; it was nothing but Basil, Basil, Basil, 
like the magpie that the old wood-cutter gave her. But her 
joy and gladness have not stood the test of time ; my niece 
has grown sad. I have seen her watch Basil’s face with 
grief in her own ; I have seen her listen to his conversa- 
tion with sadness and surprise in her eyes. She says 
nothing, she nurses her grief, and is the kind of woman 
that will sacrifice herself to an idea, to a passion she re- 
gards as sacred. Yes, this Basil is not the Basil she knew 
— and she knew him well and intimately, far better than 
I. That one was capable of noble deeds — though I hated 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


397 

him I will do him justice ; this one is sordid, mean, de- 
based, depraved. Fruit ripens and rots ; not so men’s 
hearts. .Where there is sweetness it is never wholly 
lost ; some trace of it remains, with frankness, generosity, 
and nobility. Has this Basil shown the least moral indi- 
cation that he is the man we knew ? Not one. All the 
better for me, perhaps. He will want some information 
from me respecting Annette’s fortune, will he? I may 
want some information from him. He will dictate to me, 
will he? Take care, my friend, I may dictate to you.” 

The result of his cogitations was that he made a little 
experiment. For some time past a celebrated case of per- 
sonation, in which the fortunes of an old family and 
estate were involved, had been the theme of conversation 
and speculation all the world over ; and, curiously enough, 
the man who caused this excitement hailed from Australia. 
The trial had just commenced, and the newspapers were 
full of it. Armed with a bundle of papers, Gilbert Bidaud 
presented himself to Chaytor. Throwing them on the 
table, he said. 

“Never have I been so interested, never has there been 
such a case before the public. How will it end ? that is 
the question — how will it end? You and I, who are stu- 
dents of human nature, who can read character as we 
read books, even we must be puzzled and perplexed. 
Why, what have you there ? As I live, you have been 
purchasing the same papers as myself.” 

It was true that there were English newspapers scat- 
tered about the room of the same dates as those Gilbert 
Bidaud had brought in with him, and that their appearance 
indicated that Chaytor had perused them. 

“An Englishman may buy an English newspaper, I 
suppose,” said Chaytor, a little uneasily, “without its 
being considered in any way remarkable. What partic- 
ular case are you referring to ? ” 

“An Englishman, my dear friend,” replied Gilbert, with 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


398 

exceeding urbanity, “ may purchase every English news- 
paper there is for sale in the city if he is so inclined. This 
is the particular case to which I refer.” He pointed to the 
columns upon columns of the reports of the case, taking 
up one paper after another, and laying them all down 
carefully a-top of each other with the case in question up- 
permost, till he had gathered together every newspaper in 
the room, and had arranged them in one pile. While he 
was thus employed, he did not fail to note that Chaytor’s 
face had grown white, and that he was also watching 
Gilbert Bidaud in fear and secresy. Gilbert Bidaud 
laughed softly, as he said : 

“ Study this case, my dear friend. Watch its progress 
— consider it well. But perhaps it is not necessary for 
one so deep, so clever as yourself. You have already 
made up your mind how it will end. Make me as wise 
as yourself, friend of my soul. ” 

He laid his hand upon Chaytor’s arm, and gazed steadily 
into the traitor’s eyes, which wavered in the observance. 

“How should I know,” exclaimed Chay tor, shaking off 
Gilbert’s hand, “ how it will eqd? ” 

“ Nay, my dear friend,” said Gilbert, and once more he 
laid his hand upon Chaytor’s arm, “ do not shake me off 
so rudely. You and I are friends, are we not? We can 
serve each other ; I may be useful to you — yes, yes, very, 
very useful. 

He was one who placed a high value upon small tests, 
and he had laid his hand upon Chaytor’s arm the second 
time with a deliberate and distinct purpose. If the man 
before him was really and truly Basil, he could not possi- 
bly misunderstand the covert threat which the action and 
the tone in which he spoke conveyed. Having nothing 
to fear, he would show resentment, indignation, and 
would release himself immediately from Gilbert’s grasp. 
Newman Chaytor did nothing of the kind ; inwardly shak- 
ing with mortal dread, he allowed Gilbert’s hand to 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


399 

remain, and for a few moments neither of the men spoke. 
During this brief silence Gilbert knew that the game was 
his, and that he had nothing to fear from Chaytor’s threat 
concerning the management of Annette s fortune. He 
was too wise to push his advantage. With a light laugh, 
he threw the pile of newspapers into a corner of the room, 
and said : 

“What matter to us how the case ends ? If it is against 
him, he is a fool ; if it is for him, he deserves to win ; in 
either case whether he be or be not the man, we will not 
discuss it. Our own affairs are for us sufficient. Is it 
not so ? ” 

“Yes,” replied Chaytor, sullenly. He would not have 
answered had not Gilbert looked up at him and compelled 
him to speak. 

“I love the daring deed,” continued Gilbert ; “ my soul 
responds to him who conceives and carries it out, and if 
there is danger in the execution it is to me all the 
grander. I have myself been daring in my time, and had 
I not been successful rue would have been my portion. 
You and I, my dear friend, have in our natures some 
resemblance; we view life and human matters with the 
eye of a philosopher. Life is short — ah ! I envy you ; 
your feet have scarcely passed the threshold ; I am far 
on the way. For you the summer, for me the winter. 
Well, well, there are some years before me yet, and I 
will exercise our philosophy by enjoying them. I look 
to myself ; let other men do the same. Nature says aloud, 
‘enjoy the sunshine/ I obey nature. Enjoy, enjoy, 
enjoy — that is the true teaching ; and you, dear friend, 
are of my opinion. Let this proclaim that we are com- 
rades.” He held out his hand, which Chaytor felt con- 
strained to take. “That is well; it is safer so. And 
attend. I pry not into your secrets, and you will not pry 
into mine. Of our cupboards with their skeletons we 
will each keep our key. What I choose to reveal, I 


400 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


reveal ; as with you. Beyond that boundary we do not 
step/’ 

He had not uttered a compromising word but Chaytor 
understood him thoroughly. How much, or how little, 
he knew, Chaytor could not say, but that he could be a 
most dangerous enemy was clear. He was not a man 
from whom one could escape easily, and, even if he 
were, Chaytor was not in the humor to make the attempt. 
The impression which Annette’s grace and beauty had 
made upon him was so strong that he could not endure 
the idea of leaving her. The relations between them 
had not been those of lovers ; they had been of an affec- 
tionate nature, but no words binding them to each other 
had passed between them. Gilbert Bidaud was correct 
in his observation of her. Joyous and bright at first, she 
had grown sad and quiet. A shadow had fallen upon the 
ideal she had worshipped ; and yet she did not dare to 
blame the Basil who had reigned in her heart, pure and 
undefiled. Was he still so ? She would not answer the 
question ; when it presented itself she refused to listen. 
With a sad shake of her head she strove to deaden her 
senses against the still small voice which ever and again 
intruded the torturing doubt, but she could not dismiss it 
entirely. Basil she loved, Basil she would always love ; 
was it not treason to love to admit the whispered doubt 
that he was changed ? She argued sometimes that the 
change was in her, and wondered whether he observed 
in her what she observed in him. She asked him once : 

“Am I changed, Basil ? ” 

“You are more beautiful and charming than ever, 
Annette.” 

They had had a little conversation, in which Gilbert 
Bidaud took part, as to calling each other by their Chris- 
tian names, and Gilbert had settled the question. 

“ It is too cold,” he said, “this Miss Bidaud, this Mr. 
Whittingham. You proclaim yourselves strangers. Let 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


401 

it be as it was, as it always shall be, Basil and An- 
nette. Always, always, Basil and Annette. Children, be 
happy.” 

It was as though he had given them a fatherly bene- 
diction. 

From the day of the last recorded interview between 
Gilbert Bidaud and Newman Chaytor, the intimacy 
between them grew still closer. Gilbert managed 
that, and also so contrived matters that, without any 
open declaration being made no one could doubt that 
Chaytor and Annette were unavowed lovers. Gilbert 
had decided that it would be best and safest for him 
that they should marry. He had Chaytor in his power, 
and could make a bargain with him which would ensure 
him ease and comfort for his remaining years. With 
another man it would not be so easy : he would have 
to render an account of his stewardship, and in this there 
was distinct danger. He was very curious to arrive at 
the real truth respecting Chaytor, and despite his assu- 
rance that he would not pry into Chaytors secret, he was 
continually on the watch for something that would help 
to reveal it to him. Chaytor, however, was on his 
guard, and Gilbert learnt nothing further. 

“Next week,” he said to Chaytor, “we go to Villa 
Bidaud. The summer is waning, and the climate there 
is warm and agreeable. You accompany us ? ” 

“Where Annette goes I go,” said Chaytor, 

“Yet,” said Gilbert, with a certain wary thoughtful- 
ness, “ matters should be more definitely arranged be- 
fore you become absolutely one of our family circle. 

I have spoken of this before. You are neither brothel 
nor cousin — what really would you be to her?” 

“You know what I would really be ? ” 

“ I know ; but at present it is locked in a box. If you 
tarry too long you will lose her. I perceive that that 
would be a blow ; and well it might be, for she is a prize 

26 


402 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


a king would be proud to win. Shall we decide it this 
evening? ” Chaytor nodded. “Join us at nine o’clock, 
and we will settle the matter. It may be advisable that 
I speak first to Annette. She may need management. 
I will give you a word of warning. If it goes according 
to your wish, be more careful in your behavior. Think 
a little less of yourself, a little more of her. Be tender, 
considerate, thoughtful, for a time at least, until you are 
secure of her. Then it is your affair and hers, and I shall 
have naught to do with either of you.” 

“ I will take care of that,’’ thought Chaytor, and said 
aloud, “ You think I need your warning ? ” 

“ I know you need it. You have either small regard 
for women, or you are clumsy in your management of 
them. Before I leave you now, I wish you to sign this 
paper. ” 

It was a document, carefully worded, which Gilbert 
Bidaud had drawn out, by which Chaytor bound himself 
to make no demand upon Annette’s guardian for any 
money or property which had fallen to Annette upon her 
father’s death. It was, in fact, a renunciation of all claims 
in the present or the future. 

‘ ‘ Why should I sign this ? ” asked Chaytor, rebel- 
liously. 

“ Because it is my wish,” replied Gilbert. 

* * If I refuse ? ” 

“ In the first place, you will lose Annette. In the 
second place, something worse than that will happen to 
you. ” 

“ Through you ? ” 

“ Through me. I have a touch of the bloodhound in 
me. Take heed. Only in alliance with me are you safe.” 

It was a bold hazard, but it succeeded. Without an- 
other word, Chaytor signed the paper. 

“ Basil Whittingham,” said Gilbert Bidaud, examining 
the signature, and uttering the name with significant em- 
phasis. “Good.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


403 

That evening the engagement between Annette and 
Chaytor was ratified in the presence of Gilbert Bidaud and 
his sister. The old man had a long conversation with 
his niece before Chaytor made his appearance. He told 
her that Basil had formally proposed for her hand, and 
that, knowing her heart was already given to the young 
man, he had accorded his consent to their union. He 
spoke in great praise of Basil’s character, and skilfully 
alluded to certain matters which he knew Annette was 
grieving over. 

“ You have observed a change in Basil,” he said, “ so 
have I ; but you, my dear niece, are partly responsible 
for it. The truth is, Basil was fearful of the manner in 
which you would receive his declaration. He loves you 
with so deep and profound a love, and he sets so high a 
value upon you, that he hardly dared to hope. The un- 
certainty of his position has made him forget himself; he 
has committed excesses ; he has behaved as if he were 
not Basil, but another man. You, my dear child, with 
your simple heart, are ignorant of the vagaries which 
love’s fever, and the fear of disappointment, play in a 
man’s nature. They transform him, and only when his 
heart is at ease, and he is satisfied that his love is returned, 
does his better, his higher self return. But for this fear, 
Basil would perhaps have unfolded his heart to you with- 
out my intervention, though he has behaved like an 
honorable man in speaking first to me. You will be very, 
very happy, my child. I bless you.” 

Only too ready was Annette to accept this explanation. 
Implicitly believing in it, and not for one moment suspect- 
ing guile or duplicity, she felt her faith and her best hopes 
restored. When Chaytor came to her, he was for a while 
humbled by her sweetness and modesty, and what defi- 
ciencies there were in him Annette supplied them out of 
her faith and trust. 

“ There is a little formality,” said Gilbert Bidaud, 


404 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


intruding upon the lovers. “ It is a custom in our family 
to sign a preliminary marriage contract. Affix your sig- 
natures here — you, Basil Whittingham, you, Annette 
Bidaud. It is well. Before the year is out, we will have 
a wedding. ” 

Within a week they were in Switzerland, settled in the 
Villa Bidaud. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

Annette did not remain long in her delusion. Gradu- 
ally but surely her bright hopes faded away, to be re- 
placed by a terrible feeling of hopeless resignation. The 
serpent cannot change its nature, and the worst features 
in Newman Chaytor’s character began to assert them- 
selves soon after the signing of the document which Gil- 
bert Bidaud had described as the preliminary marriage 
contract. He was sure of Annette ; what need, therefore, 
for the wearing of an irksome mask ? He threw it aside, 
and exhibited himself in his true colors, to the grief and 
despair of the girl he had successfully deceived. She 
heard him, in conversation with her uncle, use language 
and utter sentiments at which her soul revolted ; she saw 
him frequently the worse for liquor ; and often now she 
purposely avoided him when he sought her society. 
Brightness died out of the world, and she thought shud- 
deringly of the future. The flowers in her young heart 
were withered. And yet she dwelt mournfully upon the 
image of the man she had adored, and asked herself, Can 
it be possible — can it be possible? The answer was 
there, in the same house with her, sitting by her side, 
pressing her hand while he uttered coarse jokes, or gazing 
darkly at Gilbert Bidaud, who was ever ready to give 
smiles for frowns. For this was the old mans method ; 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


405 


he was urbane and light-hearted in the family circle, and 
nothing that Chaytor said could disturb his equanimity. 
He had the traitor in his toils, and he played his game 
with the air of an indulgent master. 

The Villa Bidaud was a great rambling house of two 
stories, standing in its own grounds. It was surrounded 
by a high stone wall, and stood far back from the public 
road ; when the strong iron gates were locked it resembled 
a prison. Annette, chilled at heart, began to feel that it 
was one, and, but for the companionship of her faithful 
maid Emily, her life would have been dark and gloomy 
indeed. It was a relief to her when her uncle announced 
that he and the man to whom she was betrothed were 
going away on business for two or three weeks. 

Their mission was special and important, and has been 
attempted by hundreds of other gulls. Gilbert Bidaud had 
discovered a system by which he could break the bank at 
Monte Carlo. The one diversion of the two knaves in 
the Villa Bidaud was gambling. Never a day passed but 
they were closeted together in a locked room rattling the 
dice or shuffling the cards. It may be questioned whether 
the demon of play is not more potent than the demon of 
drink, and it is certain that it had so fastened itself upon 
Newman Chaytor that he could not escape from it. His 
losses maddened him, but his infatuation led him on to 
deeper and deeper losses, Gilbert Bidaud always declaring 
that the luck must change, and that the money Chaytor 
lost was only money lent. Occasionally he professed 
indifference to the fatal pastime, and lured Chaytor on to 
persuasion, replying, “Well, as you insist. ” One day 
Chaytor, as usual, was savagely growling at his ill-luck, 
when Gilbert said, carelessly : 

“You can get it all back, ten, twenty, a hundred-fold, 
if you like.” 

“ How ? ” eagerly demanded Chaytor. 

Then Gilbert unfolded his plan. He had made a won- 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


406 

derful discovery, an absolutely infallible system by which 
fortunes could be won at the roulette tables of Monte 
Carlo and elsewhere. Chaytor caught at the bait, but with 
smaller cunning threw doubt upon it. 

“You can demonstrate it,” said Gilbert. “I have 
here a roulette table to which I have not yet introduced 
you, and upon which I have proved my figures. You 
shall take the bank, and I will carry out my system. We 
will play for small stakes. What say you ? ” 

Chaytor suggested that the stakes should be imaginary, 
but to this the cleverer knave would not agree. 

“You insist that the bank must win,” he said. “Take 
the bank and try. ” 

They played for three days, during which, as luck 
would have it, Gilbert rose invariably a winner. At the 
end of the third day he said : 

“See now. I have won from you an average of one 
hundred pounds a day. All we have to do at Monte Carlo 
is to increase the stakes, and we can win as much money 
as we please. Say, to be moderate, three thousand 
pounds a day. Fifty days, one hundred and fifty thou- 
sand pounds. Seventy-five thousand each. 

Chaytor was eager to begin, but there was first a bar- 
gain to be struck. In return for the fortune they were to 
win, and of which Chaytor was to have an equal share, 
Gilbert Bidaud stipulated that his partner should provide 
the funds for the venture. At first Chaytor refused, but, 
when Gilbert said, “Very well, there is an end of the 
matter,” he implored to be admitted upon the stipulated 
terms. 

“We commence with a bank of five thousand pounds,” 
said Gilbert. 

Chaytor drew a long face at mention of this sum, but 
he was in the toils, and avarice compelled compliance. 
On the morning of their departure he handed over the 
amount in new Bank of England notes, it being another 


' BASIL AND 'ANNETTE. 


407 

of Gilbert’s conditions that he should be the treasurer. 
Now, on the previous day, after Chaytor had consented 
to provide the five thousand pounds, Gilbert had resolved 
to ascertain where he was in the habit of concealing his 
treasure. It was easy enough to carry out this resolve. 
The Villa Bidaud was an old house, with the peculiarities 
of which Gilbert had made himself familiar at the time he 
purchased it. In one part of the room in which Chaytor 
slept the wall was double, an outer panel admitting of 
the entrance of any person who wished to play the spy. 
All he had to do was to ascend three steps, when an art- 
fully concealed peephole enabled him to see all the move- 
ments of the occupant of the inner room. From that point 
of observation Gilbert watched Chaytor’s proceedings ; 
saw him carefully lock the door and mask the keyhole, so 
that no one could see into the room through it ; saw him 
as carefully cover the windows and render himself safe in 
that direction ; saw him take his hoard of bank notes from 
the artfully-contrived pockets in his clothes, count them 
over, place a small pile aside, and return the balance to 
its hiding-place. Gilbert saw something more. He be- 
held Chaytor suddenly pause and look before him, while 
upon his features gathered a convulsed and horror-stricken 
expression, as though he was gazing on some appalling 
phantom. It was at such a moment that the character of 
Chaytor’s face became entirely changed, all likeness to 
Basil being completely obliterated. Chaytor’s arms were 
stretched out in the act of repelling a presence visible only 
to himself ; his limbs trembled, a cold sweat bathed his 
countenance, and he exhibited all the symptoms of a man 
in the throes of a mortal agony. 

Slowly and thoughtfully Gilbert left his post and returned 
to his own apartment. His suspicions were absolutely 
confirmed, so far as the evidence he had obtained could 
confirm them. On the following morning he and Chaytor 
took their departure. 


408 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“They part from us without regret,” he observed, as 
they rode away. 

“Who are they?” asked Chaytor, in a morose tone. 
He knew to whom his companion referred. Annette 
had exhibited no concern when he informed her that 
business compelled a separation of a couple of weeks. 
She had received this intimation in silence, and when he 
kissed her good-bye had not returned his kiss. He in- 
wardly resolved that when he and Annette were married 
she should pay for her growing coldness towards him. 

“I was thinking of my niece,” replied Gilbert. “She 
displayed but small grief at the departure of her lover. 
And such a lover ! ” 

Chaytor looked sharply at him, for there was a touch 
of sarcasm in his voice, but Gilbert's countenance was 
expressionless. 

“Women are queer cattle,” he said roughly. 

“True, true,” assented Gilbert, “and cattle must be 
taught to know who are their masters. Bah ! We will 
not talk of them. Let us rather talk of the fortune we are 
pursuing and shall overtake.” 

So they fell to discussing this more agreeable theme, 
and indulging in visions of vast gains. Chaytor did not 
know what his companion knew, that the “system ” dis- 
covered by Gilbert would have been really a certain thing 
but for one combination or series of figures which might 
not be drawn for many days together. It was upon the 
chance of this series not presenting itself that Gilbert re- 
lied ; if they escaped it, their purses would be filled ; if it 
occurred, it was not his money that would be lost. 

No time was wasted at Monte Carlo ; within an hour of 
their arrival they commenced to play, and before they 
retired to rest they counted their winnings. 

“Are you satisfied? ” asked Gilbert gayly. 

“No,” replied Chaytor, feverishly fingering the gold 
and notes. “We must win more, more ! ” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


409 


“We will; the world is at our feet. Let us divide.” 

This was a part of Gilberts plan ; the winnings of each 
day were to be divided ; thus he made sure of gain to him- 
self, whatever might happen to his partner. For some 
days their operations prospered, and then came the inevi- 
table bad experience. They sustained a loss, another, 
another ; a large sum had to be staked to recover their 
losses, and that also was swept in by the croupiers, upon 
whose stony faces ruin and despair produced no impres- 
sion. Chaytor stormed and reviled, and Gilbert listened 
with calmness to his reproaches. In desperation the 
younger man took the game in hand himself, and plunged 
wildly at the tables, Gilbert looking on in silence. The 
result was that, after a fortnight had passed, Chaytor had 
lost ten thousand pounds of his ill-gotten wealth. Nearly 
half the fortune of which he had obtained fraudulent pos- 
session was gone. With a gloomy countenance he counted 
what remained ; his heart was filled with bitterness to- 
wards his companion whose design it was to lead Chaytor 
on step by step until his ruin was complete. For a little 
while Chaytor contemplated flight, but so unwearying 
was the watch kept on him by Gilbert that, had he nerved 
himself determinedly to his design, he could not have put 
it in execution. Besides, the thought of Annette held him 
back. No, he would not fly, he would return to the Villa 
Bidaud, he would marry Annette, he would compel Gil- 
bert to make restitution of his niece’s fortune, and then he 
would bid farewell forever to his evil genius and take 
Annette to America, where he would commence a new 
life. 

“ I have had enough of this,” he said to Gilbert. “If 
I followed your counsels any longer I should land in the 
gutter. ” 

“ Not so, not so,” responded the unruffled Gilbert ; “if 
you were guided by me you would land in a palace. See, 
now, I kept a record of the numbers while you were so 


4io 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


recklessly staking- your money on this chance and that, 
throwing away, like a madman, the certainty I offered 
you. You know my system ; sit down with these numbers 
before you, follow them, back them according to my no- 
tation, and discover how you would have got back all 
your losses, and been in the end a large gainer. I leave 
you for an hour to the lesson I set you/* 

Chaytor applied himself to the task, with a savage 
desire to prove by mathematical demonstration that his 
associate had robbed him, and finding that Gilbert was 
right, and that by following the system he would have 
recovered his money, cursed his luck, and Gilbert, and all 
the world. His paroxysm of anger abated, a sense of 
comfort stole upon him. When he had freed himself from 
the shackles which Gilbert had thrown around him, when 
Annette was his, and he and she were alone, he would 
come back to Monte Carlo and carry out on his sole ac- 
count the system he had so foolishly abandoned. Then 
all the money that was won would be his own — there 
would be no Gilbert Bidaud to cheat him of half. 

“Have you verified my figures?” asked the old man, 
returning. “ Have you established your folly? ” 

“ No,” replied Chaytor, thrusting the paper upon which 
he made his calculations into his pocket, “you have de- 
ceived and tricked me.” 

“Ah, ah,” ejaculated Gilbert, in a light and pleasant 
tone, “ I have deceived and tricked you — and you have 
seen through me ! Clever Basil, clever Basil ! I am as a 
child in your hands. Come let us get back to our dear 
Annette. Let us fly on the wings of love.” 

They had not announced their intended return, and 
their arrival at the Villa Bidaud was therefore unexpected. 
The gates were unlocked for them by a servant, and they 
entered the grounds. Gilbert took the keys from the man, 
and relocked the gates. 

“You are precious careful,” said Chaytor. “Are you 
frightened of thieves ? ” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


4 1 1 

“ I am old,” said Gilbert, with a smile ; “I am losing 
my nerve. We stopped at the post-house, did we not, 
to inquire for letters? ” 

“ We did.” 

“ You heard me speak to the woman? ” 

“You were talking, I know, but I did not hear what 
passed between you.” 

“Your thoughts were on our sweet Annette. Why is 
she not here to receive us ? Why does she not fly into our 
arms? Ah, I forgot. We did not write that we were 
coming. Yes, I spoke to the woman at the post-house ; 
I asked her for the news.” 

“ News in this den ! ” exclaimed Chaytor, scornfully. 
“One might as well be out of the world.” 

' ‘ Out of the world — yes, out of the world. Speak not 
of it; I have passed the sixties.” 

“I tell you what,” said Chaytor, with a gloomy look 
around, “ I don't intend to keep here much longer. It is 
as much like a tomb as any place I have ever seen.” 

“ There again, there again ! Out of the world, and 
tombs. You mock the old man. What was I saying 
when you interrupted me ? Ah, about the woman at the 
post-house. I asked her for news, and she told me that 
three strangers had been seen this afternoon in the vil- 
lage.” 

“Rare news that. She might have saved her breath.” 

“ Everything is news in these small villages. Now, 
why is it that my mind dwells upon these strangers? 
Such visits are common enough. Doubtless they are 
but passing through, and we shall hear no more of 
them. ” 

“Then why keep talking about them ? ” 

“ Gently, gently. I had a bad dream last night. I saw 
you pursued by foes, and I hastened after you in my 
dreams to assist you.” 

“More than you would do if you were awake.” 


412 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“ You misjudge me. But to continue. How many 
foes were pursuing you ? Three. How many strangers 
appeared in the village this afternoon ? Three. See you 
any warning, any hidden danger in this ? ” 

“It is a coincidence, nothing more/' replied Chaytor, 
with an uneasy shifting of his body. “ Look here — I am 
not going to stand this, you know. ” 

“ You are not going to stand what? ” 

“This infernal badgering — this attempt to make me un- 
comfortable. Haven’t I enough to worry me as it is ? What 
do I care about your dreams and your three strangers.” 

“I want to make you comfortable— and happy; yes, 
very, very happy. And you will be if you do not quar- 
rel with me. ” 

“And if I do quarrel with you.” 

Gilbert Bidaud toyed musingly with a charm on 
Chaytor’s watch-chain. “Be advised. Keep friends with 
me, the best of friends. Old as I am, it is not safe to 
quarrel with me.” 

“Oh, tush!” cried Chaytor, vainly endeavoring to 
conceal his discomposure. “ Have you done with your 
post-woman and her three strangers ? ” 

“Not quite. I made further inquiries about them, and 
learnt all there was to learn. They came to the village, 
they inquired for the Villa Bidaud, they walked all round 
the walls, they lingered at the gate, they looked up to see 
the house, which, as you know, is not to be seen from 
any part of the road, they talked together, they lingered 
still longer, and then — they went away.” 

“The King of France went up the hill,” quoted Chay- 
tor. “ Shall I tell you what I make of all this ? ” 

“ Do.” 

“The dream you had was of your enemies, not mine. 
These three strangers are interested in you, and not, 
by any remote possibility, in me. They inquired for the 
Villa Bidaud —your villa, your name, The fact is, my 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


413 

friend, something; you have forgotten in the past has been 
raked up against you, and these three strangers have 
come to remind you of it.” He laughed in great enjoy- 
ment at this turning of the tables. 

“ It is an ingenious theory/’ said Gilbert, composedly. 
“Something I have forgotten in the past! But I have 
been so very, very careful. Is it possible that anything 
can have escaped me ? Perhaps, perhaps ? We cannot be 
forever on our guard. Thank you for reminding me. You 
asked me if I was frightened of thieves. Friend of my 
soul, I am frightened of everything, of everybody. That 
is why I gave instructions that these gates were never to 
be opened to strangers, unless by my orders. None can 
gain admittance here against my wish. It is a necessary 
precaution. Ah, here is my sister. ” He saluted her on 
both cheeks, and then inquired for Annette. 

“She keeps her room,” was the answer. 

“Sick?” 

“ In temper only.” 

“ She knows of our return ? ” 

“Yes, I informed her myself.” 

“And her reply? ” 

“She will come down later.” 

Gilbert turned to Chaytor and said, “ Our little one has 
a will and a temper of her own, but you will tame her ; 
yes, you will tame her.” 

Chaytor said nothing ; he did not like the signs, and 
the temptation came again upon him to fly. But still 
the image of Annette acted as a counterpoise — her very 
avoidance of him made the prize more precious. 

“ Why did you not come to welcome us?” he asked, 
when at length she made her appearance. 

“I was not well,” she answered, with her eyes on the 
ground. 

“ Are you better now ? ” 

“No.” 


44 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“This is a nice lovers greeting,” he said. 

She shivered. He gazed frowningly at her, but she 
did not raise her head. “I will break her spirit,” he 
thought. 

Aloud he said, “You do not seem happy, Annette.” 

“ I am most unhappy.” 

“Am I the cause?” he asked, and waited for the reply 
which did not come. “ It is clear, then ; do you wish to 
break the contract ? ” 

“Can I ? ” she said, with sudden eagerness. 

“No,” he answered, roughly. “You are bound by 
the paper we signed.” 

This was her own belief. With a sigh she turned 
away, and strove to fix her mind upon a book. But the 
words swam before her eyes ; she turned over page after 
page mechanically, without the least understanding of 
their sense. All at once her attention was arrested by 
mention of a name — Old Corrie. For some reason of his 
own, Gilbert Bidaud had directed the conversation he was 
holding with Chaytor to the old Australian days, and he 
had just inquired whether Chaytor could give him any in- 
formation of Old Corrie. The old fellows visit to Emily’s 
mother in Bournemouth had been made about the time 
that Annette’s feelings were undergoing a change towards 
the man to whom she had engaged herself, as she believed, 
irrevocably. This would not have been a sufficient 
cause for her not speaking of the visit to Chaytor, but he 
had latterly expressed himself sick of Australia and all 
allusions to it. 

“Don’t speak of it again to me,” he had said, pettishly, 
“or of anybody I knew there.” 

She obeyed him, and thus it was that he was ig- 
norant of particulars, the knowledge of which would 
have saved him from tripping on the present occasion. 

“Corrie,” said Chaytor, “the woodman. Oh, that old 
fool ! ” Annette started. The brutal tone in which Chay- 


BASIL AMD ANNETTE. 


415 

tor spoke shocked her. “He’s dead; and a good rid- 
dance, too.” 

Annette covered her eyes with her hands. Old Corrie 
was dead ; he must have died lately — since his visit to 
Bournemouth. How strange that the man who had just 
spoken had said nothing to her of the good old man’s 
death ! She held her breath, and listened in amazement 
to what followed. 

“Dead, eh ? ” said Gilbert, callously. “ Long since ? ” 

“A good many years ago.” 

“ In Australia, then ? ” 

‘ ‘ Of course, in Australia. ” 

Gilbert would have dropped the subject, as being of 
small interest ; but, observing that Annette was listening 
to the conversation with somewhat unusual attention, was 
impelled to say something more upon it. 

“ Did he leave any money behind him ? ” 

“Not a shilling. Drank it all away. He died in a fit 
of delirium tremens.” 

Annette rose from her chair in horror. 

“You saw him dead?” pursued Gilbert, maliciously. 

“I was with him at the time. You are mighty partic- 
ular with your questions.” 

He was not aware that Annette had slowly ap- 
proached him, and was only made conscious of it by 
the touch of her hand on his arm. 

“Well?” he said. 

She looked steadily at him ; every vestige of color had 
fled from her face, her eyes dilated, her lips were apart ; 
thus they gazed at each other in silence, and Gilbert, 
leaning back in his chair, watched them closely. There 
was an accusing quality in Annette’s steady gaze which 
fascinated Chaytor, and the color died out of his face as 
it had died out of hers. His eyes began to shift, his limbs 
to twitch. 

“How is this going to end?” thought Gilbert Bidaud, 


4 1 6 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


his interest in the scene growing. “My niece has the 
upper hand here. Faith, she has the Bidaud blood in 
her. ” 

His suddenly-aroused pride in her was a personal 
tribute to himself. For fully five minutes there was dead 
silence in the room ; then Annette removed her hand from 
Chaytor's arm, and quitted the apartment. 

The spell broken, Chaytor jumped up in fury, and looked 
after her retreating form. Turning to Gilbert, he cried : 

“The girl has lost her senses. Is there insanity in 
your family, M. Gilbert Bidaud ? ” 

“We were ever remarkable,” replied Gilbert, in a more 
serious tone than that in which he generally spoke, “for 
well-balanced brains. It is that which has kept us always 
on the safe side, which has enabled us to swim while 
others sink. Instead of losing her senses, Annette, per- 
haps, has come to them. I give you my honest word, there 
crept into my mind, while you were playing that silent 
scene with her, a profound admiration for the young lady, 
my niece. She has qualities of the Bidaud type ; I pay 
her tribute.” He bowed towards the door, half-mocking- 
ly, half-admiringly. 

“I don't want your honest word,” cried Chaytor in 
wrath and fear, for it dawned upon him that the ally upon 
whom he reckoned might declare himself against him. 
“ I want your plain meaning.” 

“ You shall have it,” said Gilbert ; “but as walls have 
ears, and there maybe danger — to you and not to me — in 
what you force me to say, I propose that we adjourn to 
the lodge by the gates, where we may exchange confi- 
dences in safety.” 

He led the way to the grounds, and Chaytor followed 
him, as a whipped dog follows its master. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


41 7 


CHAPTER XLII. 

The lodge to which Gilbert Bidaud referred stood close 
to the gates through which entrance was obtained to the 
house and grounds. It contained four rooms, two above, 
and two below, and was furnished for residence. There 
were times when Gilbert himself occupied it, and it was 
always kept ready for him, the two rooms below affording 
him all the accommodation^he required. Between these 
two rooms ran a narrow passage, at the back end of 
which was a door, but seldom used, leading out to the 
grounds. A staircase at the side of this passage led to the 
rooms above. 

Gilbert Bidaud and Newman Chaytor had arrived at the 
Villa late in the day, and it was now night. Dark clouds 
had gathered, obscuring moon and stars. 

“ There will be a storm before sunrise,” said Gilbert, as 
they reached the front door of the lodge, which he un- 
locked and threw open. “Enter, my dear friend.” 

Chaytor uttered no word, and followed Gilbert into the 
passage. The old man carefully locked the door, and the 
two men stood in darkness a moment, listening. Then 
the master of Villa Bidaud turned the handle of the door 
of the sitting-room, and stepping towards the window, 
closed the shutters, through which no chink of light could 
be seen from without. Having thus secured themselves 
from observation, he struck a match and lit a lamp, which 
threw a bright light around. In a basket by the sideboard 
were some bottles of red wine, and glasses and corkscrew 
were handy. Gilbert uncorked a bottle, and put glasses 
on the table. 

“Will you drink? ” he asked. 

27 


4i8 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“ Have you nothing stronger than this stuff ?” asked 
Chaytor, in reply. 

“ There is a bottle of brandy somewhere,” said Gilbert, 
opening a door in the sideboard. “ Ah, here it is. I 
glad that I am able to accommodate you. I am always 
glad to accommodate my friends.” 

Chaytor half filled a tumbler with the spirit, and drank 
it neat. His companion took the bottle, and replaced it 
in the cupboard. 

“You are a generous host,” observed Chaytor, 

“ It is not that,” said Gilbert, genially. “ It is that you 
need your wits to understand my plain meaning. Will 
you sit or stand ? ” 

“ I will do as I please.” 

“Do so. Your pleasure is a law to me. Pardon me a 
moment's consideration. I am debating by what name 
to address you.” 

“My name is Basil Whittingham, as you well know.” 

“ How should I well know it? It is not my custom to 
accept men as they present themselves. I judge for my- 
self. Man is a study. I study him, and each one who 
crosses my path and enters, for a time short or long, into 
my life, affords me scope for observation and contempla- 
tion. As you have done.” 

“As I have done,” said Chaytor, moodily. 

“As you have done,” repeated Gilbert. 

“I suppose I may make one observation.” 

“ One ! A dozen— a hundred. What you say shall be 
attentively received. Be sure of that.” 

“I recall,” said Chaytor, “a conversation we had. 
You said you would not pry into my secrets, and expressed 
a desire that I should not pry into yours.” 

“I remember. I said also something about our cup- 
boards with their skeletons, and that each should keep his 
key.” 

“ Yes— and you concluded with these words : ‘What I 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


419 

choose to reveal, I reveal ; as with you. Beyond that 
boundary we do not step/ I am correct in the quotation 
I think?" 

It is freely admitted. You have a retentive memory, 
and my observations must have made an impression upon 
you. ” 

“I have not," said Chaytor, “attempted to pry into 
your secrets. Why do you attempt to pry into mine ? " 

“ My dear friend, " said Gilbert, in his blandest tone, 
“you forget. It is by your invitation we are now con- 
versing, and it is for your safety I proposed we should 
converse here in secrecy. You said to me, ‘I want your 
plain meaning/ If you have changed your mind, we will 
finish now, this moment, and will return to our dear 
Annette. ” 

“No," said Chaytor, “ we will not finish now. I will 
hear what you have to say. " 

“You are gracious. But pray believe me; I have not 
attempted to pry into your secrets. You have yourself re- 
vealed yourself to me by a thousand signs. I am a man 
gifted with a fair intelligence. I do not say to my mind, 
Observe ; it observes intuitively, without command or 
direction. What is the result ? I learn, not what you are, 
but what you are not." 

“Indeed ! And what am I not ? ” 

“Plainly?" 

“Quite plainly." 

“ My dear friend," said Gilbert Bidaud, with a smile and 
a confident nod, “you are not Basil Whittingham." 

‘'That is your game, is it?" cried Chaytor, but his 
heart was chilled by the cold assurance of Gilbert’s voice 
and manner. 

“ Not my game — yours. I did not intrude upon you ; 
you intruded upon me. By your own design you came, 
and if there is a pit before you, it is you, not I, who have 
dug it. But you can yet save yourself." 


420 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


“ How ? ” said Chaytor involuntarily, and was instantly 
made aware of his imprudence by the amused smile which 
his exclamation called up to Gilbert’s lips. “ Curse it ! I 
mean, what have I revealed, as you so cleverly express 
it?” 

“I will tell you. You come to Paris, to play the spy 
upon us. You take rooms opposite our hotel, and so 
arrange a foreground of observation that you can see what 
passes in our apartments, without dreaming that you have 
laid yourself open to observation.” 

“ Oh, you found that out, did you ? ” exclaimed Chaytor. 

“ I found that out ; and I found out also that you had 
been in Paris a long, long time, although you declared to 
my niece, when you first presented yourself to us, that 
you had but just arrived by the night train. I take no 
merit for the discovery. You revealed it to me while you 
were driving with your gay companions. I asked myself, 

‘ Why this lie? Why this secret espionage ? ' and since 
then it is that I found the answer. Naturally we spoke of 
Australia ; naturally I recalled the incidents of my first 
meeting with Basil Whittingham on my brother’s planta- 
tion. They were incidents it was not possible to forget 
by either of us, and yet, dear friend, you were entirely 
ignorant of them ; indeed, you scoffed at me for inventing 
what never occurred. In this way did you again reveal 
to me, not what you are, but what you are not. Finding 
your memory so treacherous, I set a trap, frankly I con- 
fess it, a simple, innocent trap which you, being Basil 
Whittingham, would have stepped over without injury to 
yourself. In that case it would have been I, not you, 
who would have had to eat humble pie — is not that your 
English saying ? I invented scenes and incidents in our 
meeting, and brief acquaintanceship in Australia to which 
you put your seal. On my word, it was as good as a 
comedy, these imaginary conversations and incidents of 
my conjuring up, and you saying, ‘Yes, yes, I remember, 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


421 


I remember/ Fie, fie, dear friend, it was clumsy of you. 
Again those English newspapers, with their celebrated 
case which you were so greedy to peruse. Your explana- 
tion did not blind me. I knew why you bought and read 
them so eagerly. There were here to my hand the pieces 
of a puzzle not difficult to put together. Let me tell you 
— you deceived not one of us completely. My sister 
says, ‘That man is not Basil Whittingham.’ My niece 
says no word — her grief is too great — she suffers, through 
you, a martyrdom ; but she doubts you none the less. 
Some strong confirmation — I know not what — of her 
doubts you presented her with this very night, when you 
spoke so freely of old Corrie's death.” 

“Curse you ! ” cried Chaytor. “You drew me on.” 

“Could I guess what was coming when his name was 
introduced ? Could I divine what you were about to say ? 
Take this from me, my friend ; my niece knows something 
of old Corrie which neither you nor I know, and when 
she placed her hand on your arm, and looked into those 
eyes of yours which shifted and wavered beneath her gaze, 
you felt as I felt, that she accused you of lying. Even her 
maid, Emily, who never set eyes on Basil Whittingham, 
believes not in you. And the fault is all your own. It is 
you, and you alone, who have supplied the evidence 
against yourself. I see in your face an intention of blus- 
tering and denying. Abandon it, dear friend. So far as 
we are concerned, the game is up.” 

“ So you mean to say that you withdraw from the mar- 
riage contract between me and Annette ? ” 

“It is not I who withdraw ; it is she, who will choose 
death rather. She may consider herself bound — I cannot 
say ; but she and you will never stand side by side at the 
altar.” 

“The best thing I can do is to make myself scarce.” 

“That is, to disappear?” 

“You can express it in those words if you choose. 


422 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


Mind, I do not leave your hospitable abode because I am 
afraid. What is there to be afraid of? I can afford to 
laugh at what you have said, which is false from begin- 
ning to end, but I am sick of your ways. You have done 
pretty well out of me ; you are a cunning old bird, and 
you have feathered your nest with my feathers. I calcu- 
late that you have at least five thousand pounds of my 
money in your pocket.” 

“Of your money ? ” queried Gilbert, with a quiet smile. 

“Of my money.” 

“No, no ; whatever else we do let us be truthful. Of 
Basil Whittingham’s money.” 

“Oh, you can stick to that fiction as long as you like. 
Have you anything else to say to me ? ” 

“Yes. You are not free to go yet.” 

“ What ! Will you stop me ? ” 

“ No ; I will follow you, and will accuse you publicly. 
We will have the case in the papers, and you shall have 
an opportunity of clearing yourself of the accusation I 
bring against you. Basil Whittingham may be alive ; old 
Corrie may be alive ; people who know really who you 
are may be alive, and they shall all be found to be brought 
forward to acquit or condemn you. If you want noise, 
fuss, publicity, you shall have them. There is, however, 
an alternative.” 

“ Let me hear it.” 

“Not being Basil Whittingham, you have committed 
forgery by affixing his name to two documents in my 
possession. Not being Basil Whittingham, you have ob- 
tained by fraud the fortune which was his. So apprehen- 
sive of detection are you, that you would not deposit this 
money in a bank, as a right-minded gentleman would have 
done, but you carry it about with you, in secret pockets, 
on your person.” Chaytor started. “I could put my 
finger on the precise spots in which Basil Whittingham’s 
fortune is concealed. It is again you, dear friend, who 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


423 

have revealed this to me. You have a habit of raising 
yoiir hand — you are doing it, unconsciously at this mo- 
ment — to your side, to your breast, to assure yourself 
that the money is safe. Shall we make terms ? ” 

“ Name them.” 

“ I do not desire to know the amount of your wealth : 
I think only of myself, and of what the secret in my pos- 
session is worth. Shall we say five thousand pounds ? ” 
“You may say five thousand pounds,” blustered Chay- 
tor, and then suddenly paused, overwhelmed by the sense 
of power in his companions smiling face. “Hang it,” 
he said presently, “give me some brandy.” 

Gilbert Bidaud produced the bottle, and, as Newman 
Chaytor gulped the liquor down, repeated, “Shall we 
say five thousand pounds? ” 

“I will give you one,” said Chaytor, faintly. 

“ Five. Decide quickly. Observe, I take out my 
watch ; it wants two minutes to the hour. If at the end 
of these two minutes you do not agree, I shall double the 
terms. By this time you know me, and know that you 
cannot with safety trifle with me.” 

Chaytor stepped forward and looked at the second-hand, 
his mind dazed with whirling thought. Should he refuse ? 
Should he show fight ? Did he dare to risk the exposure 
which Gilbert threatened ? 

“It wants thirty seconds yet,” said Gilbert, calmly; 
“ they are precious moments, these that are flying so fast ? 

Twenty — fifteen — ten — five ” 

“I consent to be robbed,” said Chaytor, hurriedly. He 
did not dare to fight. 

“Good,” said Gilbert, putting the watch back in his 
pocket. “ The bargain must be completed to-night, after 
which, without loss of time, I should advise you to dis- 
appear. I will make excuses to my niece ; she will not be 
anxious to see your face again. Nor shall I. At midnight, 
here, we will meet again, for the last time, and after you 


424 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


have purchased safety, we will bid each other an eternal 
f&rewell. I will have a horse ready for you, on which 

you can ride to where you please. Let us now return 

to the bosom of my beloved family : a longer absence 
may arouse suspicion.'’ 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

During the visit of Gilbert and Chaytor to Monte Carlo 
some important action had been taken by Annette’s staunch 
maid, Emily. Loyal to the backbone to her young mis- 
tress, she had fully sympathized with her in her unhappi- 
ness, and had gone farther than Annette in her reflections 
upon the future. She saw that a marriage with the man to 
whom Annette had pledged herself would result in lifelong 
misery, and she set her mind to work to consider how 
the dreadful consequence could be averted. She saw but 
one way to accomplish this ; she and her mistress must 
fly from the Villa Bidaud. She did not moot this project 
to Annette, for, whenever she commenced to speak upon 
the subject of the approaching union Annette stopped 
her, and would not listen to what she wished to say. 
“But at the last moment,” thought the faithful maid, 
“when she sees that there is no other escape for her, she 
will agree to fly with me from this horrible place. We 
will go to mother in Bournemouth ; she will be safer there 
than in these wicked foreign countries.” Having reached 
thus far in her deliberations she did not pursue them far- 
ther ; she was not an argumentative person, and she was 
comfortably satisfied with the general reflection that, after 
that, things would be sure to come all right. Such a 
belief is common with numbers of worthy people when 
they are considering knotty questions, and, if it evidences 
no deep powers of mental analysis, is at all events a proof 
of the possession of an inherent dependence upon the good- 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


425 

ness of Providence — which, in its way, is a kind of religion 
not to be despised. 

With a certain conclusion in her mind, Annette busied 
herself as to the means of carrying it out when the proper 
time arrived. By Gilbert Bidaud s orders the gates were 
kept locked, and the duty of opening them devolved upon 
a man who did all the outdoor work in the house and 
grounds. Emily’s advances towards this man met with 
no response ; other means, therefore, must be tried. She 
had always been successful in making friends outside 
Gilbert Bidauds establishment, through whom she 
obtained her letters from home, and the friend she had 
made in the village in which the Villa Bidaud was sit- 
uated was the woman who kept the post-house. It was 
a matter easily arranged. Annette was a liberal mistress, 
and Emily was a saving girl ; a judicious system of 
small bribes effected all that Emily desired in this respect. 
Twice or thrice every week she visited the post-mistress 
to inquire for letters, and these visits were made in the 
night, the darkest hours being chosen. The gates being 
locked she could not get out that way, and she sought 
another mode of egress. She found it in the lodge in 
which Gilbert Bidaud and Newman Chaytor held their 
conference. There was a secure lock on the front door, 
of which Gilbert, or his sister, kept the key, but the lock 
on the back door was frail, and Emily discovered how to 
manage it, so that she could get in and out of the lodge 
without any person being the wiser. Once inside the 
lodge Emily would creep up the stairs to the first floor, 
the window of the back room of which almost touched 
the stone wall which ran round the grounds. This wall 
was some seven feet in height, but there were dilapida- 
tions in it which served for foot-holes, and by means of 
these luckily-formed steps the courageous girl was enabled 
to pass to and fro and make the desired visits to the post- 
mistress. Of course there was the danger of discovery, 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


426 

but Emily was a girl in a thousand, and the extraordinary 
care she took in these enterprises was a /air guarantee of 
safety. The lonely situation of the house assisted her ; 
there were nights when, for hours together, not a human 
being traversed the narrow road into which the front gate 
opened. 

On the night of the secret interview between Gilbert and 
Chaytor, Emily had planned a visit to the post-mistress. 
She made her way into the lodge unobserved, crept up 
the stairs in the dark, and was about to open the back 
window, when her attention was arrested by a sound 
below, which, as she afterwards described, sent her heart 
into her mouth. It was the sound of the unlocking of 
the front door. Emily’s heart went rub-a-dub with the 
fear that she was discovered, but as the slow minutes 
passed without anything occurring her fear lessened, and 
she became sufficiently composed to give attention to the 
circumstances. Softly opening the door which led to the 
staircase, she heard voices in a room below which she 
recognized as those of Gilbert Bidaud and the man who 
called himself Basil Whittingham. What had they come 
there to say ? Why could they not have spoken in the 
house? They must be hatching some plot against her 
young mistress. At all hazards, she would try to hear 
what they were saying to each other. Quietly, very 
quietly, she descended the stairs, setting her feet down 
with the greatest care, and pausing between each step. 
A cat could not have trod more noiselessly than she. At 
length she reached the door in which the conversation 
was taking place, and crouching down she applied her 
eye to the keyhole. There were the two men, one with 
a smile on his face, the other dark and sinister ; and 
Emily observed that they were not standing side by side, 
but that a broad table was between them. This precau- 
tion had been taken by Gilbert, who was quite prepared 
for any sudden attempt at violence on Chay tor’s part. 


BASIL AMD ANNETTE. 


427 

Emily was too late to hear all that was said, but she 
heard enough. Had she not exercised control over her 
feelings she would have screamed with mingled joy and 
horror ; as it was, the tears ran down her face as fast as 
she wiped them away, for she wanted to see as much as 
she could. The brave girl thanked God that a fortunate 
conjuncture had made her a witness of the interview 
between the two villains. Now, certainly, her dear mis- 
tress was saved, and she the instrument to avert the 
misery with which she was threatened ; for it was not 
alone the projected marriage which was breaking An- 
nette’s heart, but the loss of faith in the purity and nobil- 
ity of Basil’s nature. Emily waited very nearly to the 
end ; she saw Gilbert take out his watch and count the 
moments, she heard the bargain agreed to and the second 
interview at midnight planned, and then just in time, she 
crept up the stairs as softly as she had crept down, and 
waited in the room above until the two men left the 
lodge. 

What now should she do ? Return to the house, and 
acquaint Annette with what she had heard, or go to the 
post-mistress to see if there was a letter for her ? If she 
went straight to Annette she might not have another op- 
portunity of getting out that night ; besides, she expected 
a letter from her mother, and was anxious for it. She 
decided to go first to the post-mistress ; Annette knew 
that she would be away some little while, and had said, 
“I shall wait up for you, Emily. ” 

She threw open the window and climbed on to the wall, 
and down into the road. It was very dark, and as Gilbert 
Bidaud had prognosticated, a storm was gathering, but 
Emily knew her way well to the post-office, and was not 
afraid of darkness. So she sped along under waving 
branches and over black shadows till she arrived at her 
destination. Once on her way she was startled ; she 
thought she saw something more substantial than shadow 


4 2 8 BASIL AND ANNE TTE. 

moving by the roadside, but after pausing to look and 
listen her alarm subsided ; all was quiet and still. 

There was no light in the post-house, which was little 
better than a cottage, but Emily did not expect to see one. 
She tapped at the shutters, and a woman’s voice from 
within asked if that was “Miss Emily. ” The girl an- 
swering in the affirmative, a woman appeared at the door 
and bade her enter. 

“You have a letter for me?” said Emily. 

Yes, the woman replied, she had a letter for her, and 
produced it. 

“Why,” cried Emily, “ this is not from England ? ” 

No, said the woman, it was not from England, and 
explained that a gentleman had visited her in the evening, 
and had made inquiries concerning the Villa Bidaud and 
its inmates. Hearing that Miss Annette Bidaud was there, 
he had then inquired for the young lady’s-maid, mention- 
ing her by name, Miss Emily Crawford. The gentleman 
asked if the post-mistress was likely to see the girl, and 
whether she could convey a letter to her secretly that 
night err early in the morning. The post-mistress said 
she could not promise to do so that night, but she 
would endeavor to convey the letter in the morning, and 
added that it was not unlikely Miss Emily would come 
before then to inquire for letters. “ If she does,” said the 
gentleman, “give her this, and ask her to read it here 
before she goes back to the villa. It is a letter of the ut- 
most importance, and it must fall into no other hands 
than Miss Emily’s.” The post-mistress concluded by 
saying that the gentleman had paid her well for the ser- 
vice, and that she was sure there was something very 
particular in the letter. 

Emily, although burning with impatience, listened 
quietly to the tale, holding the letter tightly in her hand 
all the time, and when the woman had done speaking 
asked only one question. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


429 


“Was the gentleman an Englishman ?” 

“ Yes,” replied the woman ; “he was an Englishman.” 

Then Emily opened the letter and read : 

“My Dear Miss Emily Crawford, — The writer of this is 
old Corrie, Miss Annette’s sincere and faithful friend. He 
has seen your mother in Bournemouth, and has come here 
post haste to defeat a plot to ruin your dear young mis- 
tress’s happiness. He has a gentleman with him little 
lady will be glad to see. If you get this letter to-night, 
don’t be frightened if old Corrie speaks to you as you go 
back to the Villa Bidaud. Not an hour should be lost to 
unmask the villain and secure little lady's happiness. 
You are a brave, good girl. If you don’t get this letter 
till the morning, come at once to the back of the school- 
house, where you will see little lady’s true friend, — Old 
Corrie. ” 

The letter had been composed partly by Basil and partly 
by old Corrie, who had written it himself. Emily’s eyes 
sparkled as she read. She bade the post-mistress good- 
night, thanked her for the letter, said it contained good 
news, and went away with a heart as light as a bird’s. 
So light, indeed, that she carolled softly to herself as she 
stepped very, very slowly along the dark, narrow road, 
and the words she carolled were : 

“ I am Emily Crawford, and I have got your letter. 
Where are you, dear old Corrie, dear old Corrie, dear old 
Corrie ? ” 

The song could not have been put into lines that would 
scan, but blither, happier words with true poetry in them, 
were never sung by human voice. 

“Where are you, dear old Corrie, dear old Corrie, dear 
old Corrie?” sang the girl, and paused and listened, and 
went on again, singing. 

“Here I am,” said a kindly voice; “and God bless 
you for a true heart ! ” 


430 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“Stop a moment, please,” said the girl; who, now 
that the reality was close by her side, could not help feel- 
ing startled. “ Are you sure you are old Corrie, my dear 
mistress’s friend from Australia ? The gentleman with a 
bear, you know ? ” 

“You do well to doubt,” said old Corrie, “ with what 
is going on around you in this outlandish country. I arn 
the man I say. Stand still while I strike a light, so tha> 
you can see me. We have a bull’s-eye lantern with us. 
Is little lady well ? ” 

“Her heart is breaking,” said Emily. “But I have 
good news for her before she sleeps to-night. ” 

“And so have we, my dear, if you can get us to her.” 

“ Let me hold the lantern, Mr. Corrie,” said Emily. 

“ No, my dear, you might drop it ; there is a surprise 
in store for you and for every one in the villa yonder with 
its stone walls. There, the lamp’s alight, and you can 
see my face, dark as the night is. Do you think you can 
trust me ? ” 

“Yes, I do, and it was only out of curiosity I wanted 
to look at you.” And then Emily cried, “ Oh ! ” 

“ What is it, my dear ? ” asked old Corrie. 

“There is another,” said Emily, gasping. 

“There are two others ; we have come prepared.” 

He whispered something in her ear which caused her 
to cry “Oh ! ” more than once, and to clap her hands in 
wonderment. 

“ May I see him ? ” she asked, in a whisper 

The answer was given by Basil himself, who came 
forward and took her by the hand, while the light, directed 
by old Corrie, shone upon his face. 

“It is wonderful, wonderful!” she exclaimed, and 
added under her breath, “But I think I should have 
known. ” 

In the expression of which opinion she paid a higher 
tribute^ to her judgment than she could have rightly 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


431 

claimed for it • but this, at such a time and in such cir- 
cumstances, was a small matter. 

Mr. Philpott, who had been standing silently in the 
rear, now joined the party. 

“Don’t be frightened, my dear,” said old Corrie ; “there 
are no more of us. What we’ve got to do now is to decide 
what is to be done, how it is to be done, and when it is to 
be done.” 

“First,” interposed Mr. Philpott, to whom, by tacit 
consent, the command had been given, “Miss Emily will 
perhaps give us an explanation of certain words she spoke 
a minute ago. Are we quite private here, Miss Emily? ” 

“It’s hardly likely,” replied Emily, “that a living soul 
will pass along this road till daybreak.” 

“So much the better. You said just now that Miss 
Bidaud’s heart was breaking, but that you had good news 
for her before she went to sleep to-night. Did you mean 
by that, that our arrival here was the good news ? ” 

“ No, I meant something very different, something that 
you ought to know before you decide what to do.” 

“I thought as much. Well, let us hear it, my girl.” 

Thereupon Emily related all that she had overheard 
between Gilbert Bidaud and Newman Chaytor. It was 
difficult for Basil to curb his excitement, and whenever 
an indignant exclamation passed his lips Emily paused 
in sympathy, but he was too sensible of the value of time 
to frequently interrupt her, and as she spoke quickly her 
tale did not occupy many minutes. 

“This story,” said Mr. Philpott, with a beaming face, 
“decides what is to be done, and how and when. The 
road is prepared for us by the villains themselves. It is 
a bold move I am about to suggest, but to adopt half and 
half measures with these scoundrels would be ridiculous.” 

Basil and old Corrie said they were prepared for any 
move, however bold and daring, and were only too eager 
to undertake it. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


43 2 

“We mustn’t be too eager,” said Mr. Philpott ; “ cool 
and steady is our watchword. Now, Miss Emily, can 
you get us into the grounds of the villa to-night? ” 

“If I can get in,” said the girl, “ you can get in.” 

“And one of us into the lodge where the scoundrels 
are to meet at midnight ? ” 

“Yes,” said Emily unhesitatingly. 

“You are a girl after my own heart, ” said Mr. Phil- 
pott admiringly. “There is a risk, you know, and you 
will have a share in it. It wouldn’t be right for me to 
deceive you.” 

“ I don’t mind the risk,” said the courageous girl. “ I 
want to help to save my dear young lady from these 
wretches and monsters.” 

“God bless you, Emily,” said Basil, pressing her hand, 
and Emily felt that she needed no other reward. 

Mr. Philpott then described his plan. Guided by Emily, 
they were all to get into the grounds, when their forces 
were to be thus disposed of : Basil and old Corrie were to 
hide in the grounds as close as possible to the back door 
of the lodge ; they were not „to move or speak ; Emily 
was to return to the house and impart to Annette all that 
she knew, and in this way prepare her for what was to 
follow ; both Annette and her maid were to be ready to 
come from the house to the lodge upon a given signal ; 
Mr. Philpott was to conceal himself in one of the upper 
rooms of the lodge, and no movement whatever was to 
be made until he blew loudly upon a policeman s whistle. 
The moment this signal was given Basil and old Corrie 
were to enter the lodge through the back door — which 
Emily would leave unlocked, but properly closed, so as 
to excite no suspicion in the minds of Gilbert Bidaud and 
Newman Chaytor — and proceed at once to the lower 
room in which these men were located ; and Annette and 
Emily were to leave the house and come immediately to 
the lodge. 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


433 

“All this,” said Mr. Philpott aside to Basil, “is not 
exactly lawful, and if Mr. Bidaud and Mr. Chaytor had 
right on their side we should get into trouble. But we 
have the whip hand of them, and are safe. I anticipate 
very little difficulty, only neither of our men must be 
allowed to escape until we have settled with them.” 

The party proceeded to the villa, Emily walking a 
little ahead with Basil, to whom she imparted how 
matters stood with her young mistress. 

“Her heart was truly breaking,” said the girl, “and 
she could never have lived through it, never ! But she 
will soon be her dear, bright self again. Ah, sir, she is 
the sweetest lady that ever drew breath — and O, how 
these wretches have made her suffer ! But there is hap- 
piness coming to her. I could sing for joy, indeed I 
could, sir !” 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

All was still in house and grounds and lodge. The 
dark clouds were growing black, but the storm had not 
yet burst. A clock in the hall struck twelve, and, as if 
the chimes had called them forth, Gilbert and Chaytor 
issued from the house, and walked to their rendezvous. 
Each man was occupied with his own special thoughts, 
and each kept a wary eye upon the others shadowed 
form. 

“I left the door of the lodge open,” said Gilbert. 
“Enter.” 

“After you, ” said Chaytor. 

“Pardon me,” said Gilbert, “after you.” 

Chaytor laughed and stepped into the passage. Gil- 
bert followed, pausing to light a small lamp he carried in 
his hand. Upon entering the room he lit the larger lamp 

2 8 


BASIL AND ANNETTE, 


434 

on the table, on one side of which he placed himself, 
Chayter being on the other. 

“You seem to be afraid of me/' said Chaytor. 

“I do not trust you,” responded Gilbert. 

“There is small temptation, for trustfulness between 
such men as we,” said Chaytor. Gilbert nodded quietly. 
“Well, you have your game, and have won a pretty 
large stake. Can’t you be satisfied with what you have 
got?” 

“You know my terms ; the time for discussing them 
has gone by.” 

“ But there was something forgotten. You made me 
sign two documents, and you have spoken of forgery.” 

“You are correct. The production of these docu- 
ments with the name of Basil Whittingham attached to 
them in your handwriting would be sufficient to convict 
you.” 

“For that reason I do not choose to leave them in 
your possession. If I pay you the five thousand pounds 
you are robbing me of you will have to give them up.” 

“ They are here,” said Gilbert producing them, “and 
will be useless to me when you are gone. You can have 
them and welcome when the money is paid. You go 
to-night. ” 

“ I go to-night, and hope never to set eyes upon you 
or yours again.” 

“ My dear friend,” said Gilbert, with a courteous bow, 
“the hope is reciprocal. Let us not prolong this inter- 
view. Open your bank and purchase freedom.” 

Chaytor unbuttoned his waistcoat, and from an inner 
pocket extracted two bundles of bank-notes. Gilbert held 
out his hand. 

“No, no, old fox,” said Chaytor. “There are three 
times five thousand pounds here.” He looked at Gilbert 
savagely. 

“If,” said the old man laughing lightly, 11 by a wish 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


435 

you could burn me to ashes where I stand, you would 
breathe that wish willingly.” 

Most willingly.” 

“ But why ? I am dealing tenderly, mercifully by you. 
In right and justice this money belongs not to you. It be- 
longs to Basil Whittingham. If he were here he could take 
possession of it, and neither you nor I would care to 
gainsay him. It being, therefore, as much mine as yours, 
I let you off lightly by demanding so small a sum. Come, 
let us finish the comedy; it is time the curtain fell. 
Count out the price of liberty, the price of my silence, and 
let us take an affectionate farewell of each other.” 

“ Are you sure we are alone ? ” 

“ Do you think I would reveal our conspiracy to a third 
person? In my pleasant house every human being is 
asleep ; they dream not of the grief which will fill their 
hearts to-morrow when they learn that you have departed.” 

“Give me the papers I have signed. Here is your 
share of the robbery. You had better countit, to make 
sure. 

As Gilbert bent over the table to count the notes Chay- 
tor, with a swift movement, drew a heavy life-preserver from 
his breast, and aimed a murderous blow at the old man’s 
head. But Gilbert was too quick for him ; he had but one 
eye on the money he was fingering, the other was furtively 
watching his companion. He darted back, and so escaped 
the blow ; the weapon descended upon the table, and this 
shock and the violent movements of the men overturned 
the lamps, the light of which was instantly extinguished. 
Each man had but one hand disengaged, Chaytor hold- 
ing the life-preserver and Gilbert a pistol, which he had 
brought with him as a protection against treachery. The 
moment the room was in darkness the two disengaged 
hands groped over the table for the money, and were 
fiercely clasped. And now a surprising incident occurred. 
Upon these two hands a third hand was laid, and before 


BASIL AND ANNETTE . 


436 

they could free themselves were handcuffed together. 
Simultaneously with this startling and secure manacling 
of their hands the pistol was knocked from Gilbert s grasp 
and the life-preserver from Ch-ay tor’s ; and then a shrill 
whistle pierced the air and drove the blood from the cheeks 
of the conspirators. Hurried sounds of steps resounded 
through the passage. 

“ This way ! ” cried Mr. Philpott. “ The door is open. 
Strike a light.” 

But a light came from another quarter. A vivid flash 
of lightning illuminated the apartment; and in that flash 
Newman Chaytor beheld the form of Basil Whittingham, 
whose death he believed he had compassed on the gold- 
field across the seas. His face grew livid, a heavy groan 
escaped his lips, and his head fell forward on the table. 

“See if you can re-light one of the lamps,” said Mr. 
Philpott. 

Both the lamps were soon lighted, the glass of only one 
having been broken. Then Gilbert Bidaud, who had 
uttered no word during this succession of startling inci- 
dents, saw two men whose faces were strange to him, and 
one whose face he recognized. Manacled as he was to 
his insensible partner in crime, and unable to release him- 
self, he instantly regained his self-possession. 

“ If I mistake not,” he said, in a tone of exceeding 
urbanity, “Mr. Basil Whittingham, whose acquaintance I 
had the pleasure of making on my brother’s plantation in 
Australia. I suspected from the first that this log lying 
here was an impostor. It is but a sorry welcome I am 
able to give you, in consequence of the unlawful proceed- 
ings of a ruffian” — he glanced at Mr. Philpott — “who 
shall answer for the assault in a court of law.” 

“Do not say one word to him, sir,” interposed Mr. 
Philpott, seeing that Basil was about to speak; “leave 
him to me ; I know how to deal with such cattle. I 
promise to tame him before I have done with him.” 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


437 

“It will be well for you to bear in mind,” said Gilbert, 
still addressing Basil, “that this is my house, and that you 
are trespassing illegally upon my property. However, 
for the sake of old times, and for the sake of my niece, I 
am agreeable to waive that, and come to an amicable 
settlement with you.” 

“ He speaks very good English for a foreigner,” said 
Mr. Philpott, “and, I’ll wager, understands the law as 
well as we do. I am an officer of the law ” — (Mr. Phil- 
pott was satisfied that he was quite safe in indulging in 
this fiction) — ‘ ‘ and I tell him plainly that he has laid him- 
self open to a criminal action for conspiracy. ” 

“ Shall I not have the pleasure,” said Gilbert to Basil, 
ignoring Mr. Philpott, “of hearing what you have to say 
in response to the flag of peace I hold out ? ” 

“He is a shrewd customer, sir,”, said Mr. Philpott, 
“and if this flag of peace means absolute and uncondi- 
tional surrender I am ready to consider it. It may inter- 
est him to learn that we are in possession of all the par- 
ticulars of the interview which took place between him 
and the insensible party he is fastened to, and of the bar- 
gain they made to share your money. That tickles him, I 
see, but it is only one out of a handful of trumps we hap- 
pen to hold. I will take care of these notes ” — he gathered 
them up — “ and we will go into accounts later on.” 

“Unless my ears deceive me,” said Gilbert, “ I hear 
the voice of my niece’s maid in the passage. Doubtless 
my niece accompanies her. Do you think it seemly that 
she shall be a witness of this scene? ” 

“ Corrie,” said Basil, “take one of the lamps, and keep 
Miss Bidaud outside ; I will come to her immediately. 
Allow me, Mr. Philpott; it will shorten matters if I say a 
word.” He addressed Gilbert Bidaud. “You and your 
confederate have laid yourselves open to serious conse- 
quences, and if I consent to an arrangement which will 
keep the bad work that has been going on, and of which 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


438 

I was made the victim, from exposure in the public courts, 
it is to spare the feelings of a sweet and suffering young 
lady whose happiness you would have wrecked.” 

“My niece,” said Gilbert, nodding his head. “As 
you say, a sweet young lady, and she has been made to 
suffer by this villain. We hav6 all been made to suffer; 
we have all been his victims. But for your arrival he 
would have murdered me. He can no longer impose on 
me ; I arrange myself on your side, against him. To my 
regret I perceive that he has partially recovered his 
senses, and, while simulating insensibility, is listening to 
what we are saying ; his cunning is of the lowest order. 
It is my earnest wish to make such an arrangement as you 
suggest ; it will be to my advantage, that is why I agree. 
Instruct your man to release me.” 

“Set him loose, Mr. Philpott,” said Basil, “and see 
what you can do. I put the matter unreservedly into 
your hands. Do not allow either of them to leave the 
room. They will pass the night here. To-morrow, if 
Miss Bidaud wishes it, she will quit this prison ” 

“No, no,” interrupted Gilbert, good-humoredly, “not 
a prison — not a prison. ” 

“ — For England.” 

“She shall have my free consent,” said Gilbert. 

“Take that in writing, Mr. Philpott. And there must 
be restitution, in some part, of the inheritance her father 
left her.” 

“ In some part, that shall be done.” 

“If it is any punishment to the wretch,” said Basil, 
who saw that Newman Chaytor was conscious and atten- 
tive, “who conspired against the man who trusted in 
him, and treacherously endeavored to compass his death, 
to learn that had he followed the straight road he would 
have known long since that his unhappy father died 
wealthy, let him learn it now. You have a copy, Mr. 
Philpott, of the last letter written to him by his father. 
Give it to him, that he may read the bitter words written 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


439 

on the death-bed of one whom he should have loved and 
honored. His good mother died with her head upon my 
breast, and if he escapes the punishment he deserves and 
has richly earned, he will owe his escape to the kind 
memories I have of her who rescued me from death in 
the London streets/' 

“A noble man,” murmured Gilbert Bidaud as Basil left 
the room, “a gentleman. How is it possible that I al- 
lowed myself to be deceived for an hour by so miserable 
a counterfeit ! ” 

***** 

When Basil joined his friends in the passage, old Corrie 
touched Emily’s arm, and slight as was the action, she 
understood it, and following him into the room in which 
Mr. Philpott and the two men they had surprised were con- 
ferring, left Basil and Annette together. Old Corrie had 
placed the lamp on a bracket, and by its dim light our 
hero and heroine were enabled to see each other. Basil’s 
eyes were fixed earnestly upon Annette, but her agitation 
was too profound to meet his loving gaze. His heart was 
filled with pity for the faithful girl who had been for years 
the victim of Newman Chaytor’s foul plot ; her drooping 
head, her modest attitude, her hands clasped supplicat- 
ii/gly before her, made his pity and his love for her 
almost too painful to bear. 

“Annette,” he said softly, “ will you not look at me? ” 

She raised her eyes to his face, and he saw that they 
were filled with tears. 

“Can you forgive me, Basil ? ” she whispered. 

“ Forgive you, dear Annette ! ” he exclaimed, taking her 
hands in his, “it is I who ought to ask forgiveness for 
believing that you could forget me.” 

“ Never for a single day,” she murmured, “ have I for- 
gotten you. Through all these years you have been to 
me the star of hope which made life bright for me. Oh, 
Basil, Basil ! it seems as if you have lifted me from death 
to life. The world was so dark, so dark ” 


440 


BASIL AND ANNETTE. 


“ It shall be dark no more, dear,” he said, his voice 
trembling with excess of tenderness. “ Until you bid me 
leave you I will be ever by your side. I consecrate my 
life to you. What man can do to compensate for the 
suffering you have endured, that will I do in truth, and 
honor, and love.” 

He placed his arms about her, and she laid her head 
upon his breast. There are joys too sacred for utterance, 
and such joy did Basil and Annette feel as they stood 
clasped in each other’s arms on that dark and solemn night. 
* * * * * 

What more need be told ? Radiant and happy, with 
faith restored, they commenced their new life hand-in- 
hand. Those who had conspired against them, and whose 
evil designs had been frustrated, went out into the world 
unpunished by man ; they and their intended victims 
never met again. The business matters it was necessary to 
arrange were settled by Basil’s lawyers, who saved from 
the wreck a sufficient competence. All who had served 
him and Annette were amply rewarded. In Mr. Philpott’s 
family their names were names to conjure with ; Emily 
remained with them till she found a sweetheart and a home 
of her own ; and old Corrie was prevailed upon to live in 
a cottage near them, attached to which was a piece’ of 
land which afforded him profitable employment. He 
talked sometimes of returning to Australia, or of buying 
another performing bear, but he did not carry either pro- 
ject into execution. Often and often would the three 
friends talk of the old days on the plantation, and call up 
reminiscences of the happy and primitive life they enjoyed 
there ; and then old Corrie would steal away and leave 
the lovers together ; for, though they were man and wife, 
they were lovers still, and lovers will remain — purified 
and sweetened by their trials — till they are called to their 
rest. 


70 5 


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